Idiot Savant
by Nomiliy
Summary: Continued on AO3. Steve/Darren, AU, Slowburn. Steve and Darren grow into semi-reasonable teenagers and remain best mates despite a rocky start to year 11. But Darren's new boyfriend leaves Steve on edge, and a familiar freak-show has just rolled into London.WARNING: Contains M/M, M/F sexual content and violence in later chapters.
1. Fuckin' Eric

Chapter One: Fuckin' Eric

* * *

Steve Leonard was in control. By the age of 17, he'd outgrown his tantrums and violent tendencies. Does that sound a little late? You're damn right it is. But better late than never, and better late than prison as his corrections officer so elegantly spelled out.

"Ya got one more fight." Officer Crawley said with a fat, sweaty hand fisting a mug of tea at about 11:00 pm in the West Essex police station. Steve didn't even remember how he ended up in Essex from Central London, but there he fucking was.

"Yeah? What 'appens after 'at, 'en?" Steve asked through a busted lip and a smirk. Without the shiner and busted face, Steve Leonard was a rather handsome young man. He had a strong, squared-off jaw with dark stubble ghosting his chin and jawline. His nose, bless his Jewish roots for the nose, sat atop his angular face in a prominent slope. And, like the rest of his sharp face, his eyes were a piercing blue that just sang cockiness.

"After that, it's the penitentiary."

Steve's hot-shit demeanor died there. Somehow he'd managed to elude corrections facilities and Youth Courts up until now, and much of that was thanks to Officer Crawley. But that time was coming to a close. The thought of actual prison physically shook the young man.

"Ya understand what I'm saying, son? I can't keep coverin' your ass. God bless your mum an'all, but I'm at my wit's end here."

Steve nodded. There wasn't much he could really say. He knew Officer Crawley was right. With his banged-up face and platinum blond hair caked in blood, dirt, and beer, he knew he didn't have the energy to keep going the way he did. Steve, almost like he was born for the feat, raised Hell everywhere he went. He fought in pubs and bars he wasn't even supposed to be in. He purchased beer and vodka with fake IDs, and when that failed he straight up shoplifted. Damn, Steve even aggravated the general public on _trains _just to start a brawl. He assumed that's how he got here in Essex. Probably. The memories went in and out with the throbbing in his right eye, a real shiner, but he pieced the basics together: He said some unsavory comments about some bloke's mum, got clocked on the train, dragged said bloke out of the train and almost stomped his head on the platform, got arrested, pawned off to Crawly; The usual. But fuck was he tired from it all. Steve was exhausted, beaten to hell, and literally a fight away from prison. Not the best place to be at 16.

So, Steve took Officer Crawley's advice for once. He stopped cold turkey and all. Was he still angry? Oh, fuck yeah. White-hot rage swarmed his being about 70% of the time, but he learned to live with and around the anger. Rather than punching other people and getting into drag out, knockout fights in the schoolyard that either ended in severe bodily damage or his arrest, Steve punched a sandbag. And a speedbag. And a dummy. And, when he just really needed _it_, a worthy volunteer from the Left Hook Boxing Gym. But no matter how he got out all his excess aggression, he got it out in a safe, and above all _legal_, fashion.

Even with the residual anger seeping through Steve's boxing gloves in his downtime, his school life and grades were, as usual, top rate. Steve was on track to ace his A levels and was almost guaranteed admittance into top universities like Cambridge and Oxford. While his anger issues never got in the way of his grades, the change in attitude definitely made the whole academic experience not _terrible. _Classmates approached him more often, even asked him for help in history and math like he wasn't a delinquent who'd shank them upon eye contact. Teachers scolded him less, he almost never slept in class anymore, and he even _participated._ Like, raised his hand and answered questions and, much to the coach's delight, he didn't start quarrels at rugby practice anymore. Well, not as often. If Tommy Jones scrumed him one more time he'll knock that fucker's teeth out.

Hell, Steve even had his best friend back. Darren "Hot Shot" Shan, the only kid who could deal with Steve's temper, name every issue of Spawn (including the Japanese manga adaptation _Shadows of Spawn)_, free-kick a football into a corner shot, and pick up any spider with his bare hands, was once again at the blond's side. Not without a lot of apologizing on Steve's part, of course. When the brunet came out to Steve 6 months ago, the news was not received well. In fact, Steve took it all _abhorrently. _There was only one thing Steve regretted more in his whole life than those five minutes. But calling your best friend a 'dick-hungry faggot' and demanding he get the fuck away from you was definitely one of the worst memories Steve had. He remembered regretting the words immediately. Tear-stained cheeks and raging green eyes were the last things Steve saw that night before Darren socked him in the jaw. Steve was out cold till his mum woke him up the following morning. They avoided each other for the next two months, literally ducking out of the other's way by hiding in bathrooms or empty classrooms just to nix eye-contact. But Steve just couldn't keep it up. His life was miserable without Darren. Those three months were filled with a lot of drinking, a lot of girls, and a lot of fights. When he wasn't getting faded at a house party or hooking up with a one-night-stand, he was trying to. And, apparently, it was in one of these cesspools of teenage fuckery that shitfaced-Steve _actually _made a smart decision. He doesn't remember any of it, but he woke up in the Shan household, on their couch, with his shirt tossed on the TV, puke dried onto the side of his face, and Annie Shan ogling him.

_"G' morning Steve." She said, resting her arms and face on the back of the couch. Her soft red curls framed her face in such a sweet, innocent fashion. But those piercing green eyes betrayed her looks. Her intentions were as apparent as Steve's hangover as she eye-fucked the older man. "Sleep well?"_

_Steve tried lifting his head off the couch arm, but that was a bad fucking idea. Everything started swimming and throbbing and the lights fucking pulsed with the blood surging through his temples. " Oy gevalt...m'fuckin head…" He registered Annie's presence then. "Why'er ya in m'house…?"_

_"Look again, you drunkard." A surprisingly deep voice came from Annie's general direction, and Steve thought very long and hard about female puberty. "Annie quit starin' at him and get."_

_Annie glared at her older brother before complying with his demands, walking off with a quick glance back at Steve's bare chest. Steve might've felt compelled to cover himself if he was sober enough to care and if Darren wasn't staring at him. Those two things together just short-circuited his brain into a state of dumbfounded silence._

_"You somehow had the foresight to call me. I was outside when you made your way to our house, and Good Lord, you were thrashed, mate." Darren said, grabbing Steve's shirt off the TV and tossing it at the blond._

_Steve didn't try to catch it. The realization of where he was, who he was with, fought with his sobering mind and culminated in a pitiful question: "When'd I call?"_

_"Around 3 in the morning," Darren said._

_Steve nodded, accepting that as fact in an attempt to piece together his night. "Why'd I call?"_

_Darren gave Steve a look that he couldn't quite decipher. Instantly, fear crept up the back of his neck and took hold of his vocal cords, trying to yank the words back from the air._

_"To apologize," Darren said softly. He was smiling now. "I mean, I couldn't understand what you were saying, you were so drunk, but then you came over. And you were crying, and vomiting, and crying some more-"_

_"Ah, fercockt…" Steve cursed, getting bits of memories back from the night before. He cried like a fucking bitch. _

_"That too, you said a lot of things in Yiddish, but all I could make out was 'fuck,' 'sorry,' and 'fucking sorry'."_

_"Good, I probably said sumfin real fuckin' embarrassin'." Steve rubbed his hands over his forehead and eyes, feeling the headache roar into a state of soberness. He wanted to leave, get a drink and forget the memories that edged on his mind. He got bits of Darren's face from the night before. He looked concerned one second. The next, his memory flashed into a hellscape. Darren looked fucking broken. Green eyes on the verge of tears, dark brown hair tousled by the wind. The dark of the night hid his face, but the lamp lights glowed just enough for Steve to make out an expression of true pain._

_God, Steve needed a damn beer._

_"It was kinda sweet, though. I mean, it be nicer if you weren't drunk, but I get it." Darren said before settling on the couch next to Steve. He was taken back by the action, clutching his shirt tight in his fists. "I'm just happy you don't hate me anymore." Darren chuckled at his own words, but maybe more out of nervousness than actual joy._

_"I never hated you, Dare," Steve said, not an ounce of slurring in his speech. "I couldn't hate you."_

_Sheer surprise gripped Darren's features, twisting his face into that unreadable visage that frightened Steve to no end. Steve wanted to say more, to properly apologize for hurting Darren so horribly. But just as he mustered up the courage, a familiar voice stopped him as it rang through the air. It was a rich soprano, one with an endearing Irish twang that echoed subtly in her son's own voice._

_"Oh, good mornin' Steve!" Mrs. Shan called from the stairway, waving at the boys down in the living room. Her dark hair was a complete mess, and that oversized robe consumed her, yet she looked absolutely ecstatic. "I didn't know you were staying over, but it's so good to see you lovely! Are you staying for breakfast? I think we still have some of those kosher sausages in the fridge…"_

_Steve looked to Darren for approval, but he was already helping Steve off the couch to lead him into the breakfast nook for tea and those sausages he didn't have the heart to tell Mrs. Shan were horrible._

Steve was in control. Really, he was. It took the teens years to finally get there, but he had a grip on life finally. Everything was pretty great for him. Good grades, improving mental health, _great fucking _friends, everything was wonder-

"Hey, babe~" A deep voice called over the school practice fields. It was faint, and not directed at any rugby players, _certainly not towards Steve,_ but at a shirtless goalie over on the football field.

Steve cringed. "Fucking Eric…" Steve said aloud to himself, taking his eyes off the game for a split second. Just in eyesight, a sweaty Darren bounded away from his game to give his boyfriend, Eric, a running hug. Eric caught the built teen easily, giving him a kiss on the side of the mouth. Steve scoffed before getting full rushed into the ground. A chorus of jeers and swears erupted from the sidelines of the rugby and the football fields as Steve gathered his bearings. Tommy Jones trotted away looking very pleased with himself.

"The FUCK, Jones…!?" Steve shouted, up off the ground and at the offender in an instant.

"What?" Tommy shot back. "You should've been payin' attention, mate! Just tryin' to keep ya on your toes, s'all!"

"Whatever, mate." Steve retorted but gave Tommy a weary smirk all the same.

Tommy gave the teen a few good slaps on the back and Steve just couldn't lay into him. Not only was Tommy a stellar athlete, but the kid had a heart of gold. When he played goalie for the football club, Jones even surpassed Darren, and that was a feat. And his talent was quite persistent in rugby as well. But Tommy was never one to boast. The kid's too sincere and too much of an idiot to have any malice towards anyone.

Steve wanted to set up again, give Tommy a good mauling and send him home _crying. _But a would-be-nice sight caught his attention. Steve saw Darren leave the football field and make a b-line straight for him. That was the nice part. The tall, reluctant shadow following his best friend soiled the sentiment. Darren was a good 10 feet ahead of said shadow, Eric, the older man clearly lagging behind with a strained smile.

"Smooth, Leopard, smooth," Darren called, wiping sweat from his dark brow with a bundled up jersey. Though Darren may have been a little chubby back in the day, years of football turned the short teen into a stack of lean muscle. His upper body wasn't as muscled as Steve's, but his lean build and practice gave the brunet a great set of calves and thighs. His face also lost the baby fat, and now a rounded, well-shaven jawline and lean cheeks took its place. The one thing he couldn't seem to shake from childhood was his 'adorable' button nose. "What happened to those predatory reflexes?"

"I think Jones knocked'em out of me last season," Steve replied, raking a hand through his own sweaty hair, nicking a forming bruise. "Who the fuck let him play rugby?"

"I think _you _invited him, genius." Darren retorted.

"Who _the fuck_ let me do that?! Why didn't ya stop me, Dare? The man's a fuckin' machine!"

"Yeah!" Darren said. "An' that's why I didn't say anything! You think I'd _ever _get to play goalie with Jones around? Sorry Steve, but you're collateral damage."

"Oh, Darren…" Steve faked hurt, placing a hand over his shirtless heart. "You'd betray me like that? Now, I really thought we were friends, mate."

Darren gave a soft chuckle, punching Steve in the shoulder playfully. Now, as any best friend of Steve 'Leopard' Leonard would know, 'playful' often turned 'violent.' A small glint sparked in the blond's eye, matching that trademark Leopard grin. The two broke out into a mini-wrestling match reminiscent of their childhood. Steve had Darren in a headlock-noogie, ignoring Darren's cries and soft slaps to his forearm. Each time the smaller teen tried getting out, Steve would swing their weight around, keeping his dark-haired friend off balance and locked in his rugby oiled muscles. This is the shit Steve missed. Fucking around with his best friend, laughing and having a go at each other. It was all perfect. Like, truly nirvana levels of perfection. But the dirt-bag shadowing Darren gave a grunt and coughed at the pair. Darren untangled himself from Steve, almost rushing to his boyfriend's side to quell the older man's sensitivities. Steve wasn't sure what Darren saw in Eric. The man wasn't particularly attractive, _he was a fucking ginger for Christ's sake,_ and he was the clingest wanker Steve ever met. Honestly, who gets bent out of shape over some rough-housing? And Eric just couldn't hide the disdain in his gaze for Steve. The pair had made only brief eye contact, but Steve recognized hatred when he saw it. Eric's stance was wide, and his right hand was relaxed in his pocket. As far as Steve could gather, the older man was trying to appear relaxed and calm. But with his hand sprawled over the brunet's hip bone, rooting the teen in place beside the 23-year-old, Eric seemed nowhere near calm. Steve surveyed the hand. He held onto Darren like he was a possession; like he was a thing that Eric and only Eric could touch or find enjoyment in. He wanted to wrench the appendage from his friend and shove it up the pedo's ass. _You'd laugh then, wouldn't ya? _

"Babe," Eric said. "You wanna get outta here?" He massaged Darren's hip as he spoke, words low, tongue swiping over his lips in a shameless display of horn-doggery.

"I'll meet up with you after catching up with Steve, alright?" Darren said, not even flinching at the pure fuck-boi waves radiating off the older man

"Ah, but you know how much I hate waiting, babe~" Now both hands gripped Darren's hips, pulling the 17-year-old closer and closer into what would surely be an open-mouthed tongue raping.

"Oh, no, please." Steve dead-panned. "Don't temper the passions for my sake, boys."

Darren playfully batted his boyfriend's hands away at the comment. The two kissed goodbye, Darren mouthing a silent 'sorry' for his friend's attitude. Eric gave an understanding nod, and mouthed back 'You owe me' with a wink. Steve shuddered as Eric's hand slithered down his friend's back to grab a handful of Shan ass before heading back to whatever cesspool he called a flat.

"And you were doing so good, Steve…" Darren drawled out, pulling his jersey back over his shoulders with a huff.

With mock incredulousness, Steve asked "Wha-What?! What I do, Dare?"

"Oh, come off it." Darren shot back. The brunet gathered up his play-gear, speed-walking off the field.

Steve quickly grabbed his own stuff, school bag and gym bag in tow, before catching up with the shorter teen. "You come off it, man. You know I don't mean nothing nasty or homo-hating. I just think the bloke's a fuckin' wanker."

Darren rolled his eyes. "You don't even know him, and God forbid you even try or something."

"I don't need to get to know him, I've seen his kind all the bloody time," Steve said. "It's statutory Dare, he's like 10 years older than you, and he's always grabbing on you, pulling you into all his twisted, perverted shit. He's corrupted your sweet, innocent, virgin mind."

Darren gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. "First off," he said, "Eric's only 6 years older than me, not 10, you ass-"

"Six, ten, whatever, it's _basically _the same."

"And _second,_" Darren cut back in with that trademark sass. "You basically just described yourself. Like, every girlfriend you've ever had's been younger than you by _a lot, _you fucking cradle-robber._"_

"Like who?" Steve asked, but immediately regretted it when he saw that glint in Darren's eyes.

"Who? _Who?_" Darren was laughing now, like a damn mad man. "I don't know Steve, maybe the entire volleyball team?"

"_Entire? _Nah, Dare, I'm good, like _good-" _He gave Darren a raised eyebrow, nudging him a little with his elbow, making sure he _absolutely_ got the innuendo. "But not that good."

"Emily Watts, Sarah Neil-Porter, Sumia Patel, Julia Evergreen, Suzanna Johnson, Lydia Bell Sahri - Should I keep going?" As Darren counted off the girls, fond and not so fond memories came rushing back to the blond.

"No, I get the picture. I'm a whore." Steve admitted. "But they all weren't _that _much younger than me. I mean, fuck's sake man, Julia was like 14 when I was 16-" He took notice of the death glare Darren gave him. "Which is fucking gross, don't get me wrong!" Steve added quickly. "But not as gross as a 23-year-old, grown ass man getting it on with a 17-year-old."

Darren rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "Age of consent is 16, therefore Eric isn't doing anything illegal, unlike _some _people…"

"I get it, I get it." Steve retorted, waving off Darren's judgment. "I've made some _terrible _decisions in my life. And sometimes they weren't really _legal-" _

Darren gave the taller man another look of pure hellfire.

" -but that's why I don't need to get to know him, Darren, because I use to be that kind of guy."

"Use to be?!" Darren sputtered, chuckles bubbling deep in his stomach as the pair walked in tandem to Steve's house.

"Hey, hey! I've done a lot of growing these past few months, Dare. I'm practically a changed man."

"Oh, no, totally, Steve," Darren replied. "That's why you practically lit Eric on fire with your eyes. I saw it all mate, don't play innocent."

"But I didn't _actually _light him on fire. And if you saw everything, how could you not see that fuckin' look _he _gave me?" Steve asked.

"He's just protective of me, Steve."

"So am I! I mean, what would ya do if some Uni bloke tried to date Annie?"

"Don't even Steve, it's not even remotely the same thing," Darren said. "Annie's 15 and too nice for her own good. I don't even think she's interested in anybody. Well, other than you."

"Don't remind me, mate…" Steve shuddered a little at remembering how Annie's eyes followed him whenever he was around. He used to shower at the Shan's after practice. _Used to. _The last time Steve hopped out of the guest bathroom he swore the door was cracked just enough for a prying eye to peep through. Now he just showered at home, sweat and filth be damned. "But still Dare, you're my best mate. I just don't want to see you get hurt s'all."

Darren's face softened into a warm smile, bumping shoulders with his taller friend with just enough force and care to say _'I know, but you don't have to be such a prat.' _

Steve felt his stomach flip at the contact. Small, ugly thoughts reared up in his head as he looked to his best friend's comforting face and then to their small contact.

"I know, and you're great for that," Darren said warmly, pulling Steve into a side hug that he was _not _ready for.

Steve stiffened noticeably at the contact. Before Darren came out as gay they were never the touchiest of friends. The rough-housing and wrestling were all fine and good, but hugging? Steve just couldn't get over the way his stomach lurched at the thought of it all. Darren took notice and awkwardly shifted away. Steve kicked himself mentally for it, hating the tinge of pain Darren tried to conceal. The brunet clutched his bag closer to his body, the other hand snaking tight around his own waist as they walked. Steve felt overwhelming guilt for his reaction. It had been almost three months since the pair made up, but Steve still couldn't shake his gut reactions. He wanted to pull away, to distance himself, to _run. _But he knew an apology was the right thing to do. He hurt Darren, no matter how unintentional it was, and he needed to swallow his pride and make up for it. He wanted to apologize to Darren, he really did, but the words kept jumbling up around his tongue. How the fuck can you say 'sorry' for literally feeling _disgusted _by a friend? You can't. So the pair walked in silence. And Steve hated himself for it all.

The walk to Steve's home was uneventful and terribly awkward. Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he unlocked the front door because the light, airy voice of his mother broke through the deafening silence that loomed over them.

"Hi love, how was-" Mrs. Leonard's voice cut out upon seeing Darren. She gave a noise of unadulterated delight as the pair walked through the hallway. Mrs. Leonard gave a little shuffle in her house slippers, opening up her arms and giving the boys a great, mother-bear hug. Darren hugged the smaller woman with much enthusiasm, and Steve reciprocated with a quick, one-armed squeeze.

"You've brought Darren!" She laughed, wrapping both arms around Darren as Steve wormed his way out by giving his mother a small pat on the shoulder. Again, Steve wasn't a hugger. Which was fine by his mom, who latched onto Darren happily as only a Jewish mother could. Mrs. Leonard was a petite, middle-aged mother with blonde-white hair. She'd gathered quite a few silver strands over the years, and quite a few wrinkles here and there, but that didn't stop her from strong-arming the strapping football player.

"Darren, love, you just look so thin!" She said, pulling at his built, yet still rather stringy appendages. "How can ya play when you barely eat anythin' dear." She doted, offering tea and cookies and latkes and knishes as they walked to the couch.

Darren denied all the treats but chatted away with her all the same. Steve retreated to the kitchen, dropping off his bag next to Darren's in the hallway, while the two talked in the living room. Darren and Steve's mum huddled up on the small sofa whilst flipping channels on the old CRT TV. They mindlessly chatted on about their day, Steve munching on cold, leftover latkes like an animal. Hanukkah was still three months away, but his mother recently got back into cooking, and latkes seemed to be her favorite. He would've joined them in the living room, his mom and Darren on the couch with himself on the floor or the like, but the awkward walk home left him craving some distance. He needed to gather himself and regrow his fucking balls. And if there's anything he learned from his therapist, the best way to mend something is to 'confront the situation.' In this case, 'confronting the situation' meant bribing Darren. Steve finished off his latkes before opening the fridge for the peace offering: two cold root beers and a half-empty jar of pickled onions. Really, Steve wanted a cold beer right now, but his mum was doing so well. He couldn't risk a relapse with alcohol in the house, so rootbeer was a nice, but utterly pitiful, alternative. Steve held up the snacks as he walked out of the kitchen, earning Darren's undivided attention. Emerald green eyes locked onto the Haywards Sweet and Mild jar. The man fucking loved his pickled onions.

Mrs. Leonard took notice and gave Darren a quick pat on the shoulder as he headed up the stairs with her son. Usually, Steve would've just followed his friend up with little word to his mother. But his therapist, Mrs. Fairfield, was really pushing for some vital 'regrouping' with his mother. That meant regularly talking with her, asking her permission for things, _hugging her and shit. _Steve felt now was the time to do at least one of those things.

"Mum?" Steve asked from the first step of the stairs. "Is it alright if me and Darren chill upstairs for a bit?"

His mother turned her head from the TV looking rather surprised, but very joyed as well. "Of course, yeah, of course, love." She said softly.

Steve nodded before giving her a small smile back. "Alright, uh… thanks, Mum." He said.

Mrs. Leonard smiled back, but the corners of her mouth perked up in a hesitant manner. "L-love you, Stephen." She said.

"You too." He couldn't really say the 'L' word yet, but she seemed very happy with the sentiment, smiling beautifully as she settled back into the couch. And Steve was rather alright with that.

The minute the pair reached Steve's room, Darren flopped down on his friend's bed. It was covered in discarded shirts and a few comic books, but Darren still curled up with the thick blankets all the same. Though Steve's bed was literally just a mattress on the ground, Darren acted like it was the comfiest thing in the world, despite the mess. Unlike his bed, the rest of Steve's room was pretty well maintained. His collection of vampire and folklore books were neatly alphabetized on his small bookcase, his comic book collection laid neatly on display underneath that, and his desk was immaculate in its orderliness. Darren popped a pearl onion in his mouth before scanning over the pages of an opened _Spawn _comic.

"How can you stand that stuff?" Steve asked, reclining back in his desk chair and cracking open _Treatise on the Apparitions of Spirits and on Vampires, _one of his most recent finds from Watkins Books in London. He sipped on the rootbeer as he thumbed through the pages.

"Remember when I went to summer camp before 8th year? My cabin mate-I think Sam, maybe?-always hid a jar of pickled onions under his bed. He'd share them with me at night, so I just grew to love'em." Darren said, popping two in his mouth without shame. "What printing is this, by the way?"

"You're the nerd," Steve replied, knee deep in Camlet's interpretation of vampirism and starved Balkans. "You tell me."

"You're the one reading a history book_, nerd_." Darren jeered back, re-reading Spawn and Tremor's matchup against Twistelli for what was surely the hundredth time. "And these comics will be invaluable, like, 10 years from now. Sell'em to the right collector and you could score $120 _per _issue."

"Really?!"

"Well, not _yours,"_ Darren said. "You've opened yours, mate, and some of these pages are bent and dog eared. And there's no way these are first printings." Darren clicked his tongue, now surveying the comic page by page. "I mean, they're not as bad as Tommy's, Good Lord, but I wouldn't even give you $5 for this."

"Shit, there goes my Uni fund," Steve said, flipping to the next chapter of Camlet. "Think I'll get anything for this?" Steve held up the weathered book, but Darren didn't even have to look up.

"Your virginity back."

"Oi, you fuckin' wanker, Shan!" Steve was upon the smaller teen in an instant, putting him in a headlock. Darren laughed at the assault, gripping Steve's built forearm as he struggled with his friend. Steve shifted their weight, taking them both down onto their sides with Darren's neck still caught between his strong arms.

"If you keep usin' the same move-" Darren slipped out of Steve's forearms with a slight twist, burying his face into Steve's chest and rushing the man onto his back. "-I'll just learn how to get out," Darren said with smug charm.

Steve collided with his mattress, taken back by Darren's speed. He was _actually pinning_ him down! For a split second, Steve was immensely proud. Darren and he were both decent athletes, but rugby gave Steve certain advantages; giant arms, a built chest, a ruthless need to drive people into the ground, all the traits one needs to whup ass at wrestling. So, Steve was very proud of his lean friend - until he noticed the inherent closeness of their bodies. Darren's hands were above the both of them, locked onto Steve's wrists to keep the larger teen down. Inevitably, this caused his friend to lean over quite close. Their faces were so close. Too close for Steve's comfort. He noticed features and details that stirred him in ways he couldn't quite figure. Darren's tan, red-tinged face. A thin sheen of sweat over his forehead. His tongue darting out between pants to lap at chapped lips. Warmth crawling up his thighs. The press of Darren's hips- _They were too close. Way too fucking close. _

A sharp buzz rapted through the small bedroom. Before Steve could even register the motion, Darren was off him. The brunet flipped open his phone, a small smile lingering on his face.

"W-what is it?" Steve asked, uncertain of why it was so difficult to speak. His mouth felt dry and cottony like he just woke up from a bender.

"Eric. He's taking me to a movie tonight, so I better get going." Darren said.

"What? Ya just got here mate, no need to rush." Steve said, rising from his bed. "When's he gettin' here? Mum's been crazy about baking the past few months, so you could-" Steve took notice of his friend's odd expression. He looked rather amused, if also a tad embarrassed. "What?"

"He's already here," Darren said, pointing his phone at Steve's bedroom window.

Steve peered out to see a 2000 honda civic parked outside his terrace house. Eric leaned against the car, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Oh...uh…" Steve stammered out. "Alright then."

"Sorry, Steve," Darren said. "See you tomorrow in history?"

"Yeah, see ya then."

Darren gave his friend a weak smile, mouthing a quick 'sorry' as he passed through the bedroom door.

Steve watched his friend make his way to the stairs, leaning against the doorframe for stability. His mouth still felt dry. His head was swimming just a little, and he found that his voice still hadn't quite returned to him.

"D-Dare…?" Steve called from his door.

Darren looked back over his shoulder, not even over the first step down yet. "Hmm?"

"I-I uh… I'm a… really sorry about earlier today. Ya know. With Eric an' all… " Steve said. "I know I'm an ass, and I know I haven't really been friendly towards'em. An' I know that I'm… I'm uh… " He searched for more things to say. His brain wracked over words and sentiments, but nothing really could come out. He just stood there in his doorway like a complete idiot in front of his only real friend. He felt the frustration and anger just seize him up all over again. His hand dug into the doorway, his fingers ached, his temples pulsed, everything was becoming unbearably hot-

"I get it, Steve," Darren said softly with a faint smile over his face. "You don't need to apologize."

Everything seemed to melt away from the blond. He released the door frame, his blood cooled, his aches ceased. Darren always seemed to have that effect on him. When the world screamed at him, when his own brain never shuts off, Darren quieted everything.

He waved Darren off on his way down the stairs, feeling strangely light and peaceful. Hearing him shout a goodbye to his mum made Steve chuckle for some reason. Darren acted more like her son than Steve did, and while at one time that would've boiled him over, now it seemed bemusing in the happiest of ways. Steve thought he could read the rest of Camlet in peace for the night. He settled down in his desk chair, flipping to the chapter on the possession of Mademoiselle Elizabeth de Ranfaing. This was the third time Steve found himself reading this particular chapter. He found striking similarities between Ranfaing and the notorious Loudun Possessions, most notably her connections with a soon-to-be convicted magician. He got comfortable in his desk chair, setting his foot on the desk so he could use his legs as a prop up for the book. Everything felt right again. His anger was quelled for the moment, and it was just himself, his book, and the light feeling rolling over his shoulders. But he heard a familiar and wholly unpleasant voice. He looked down from his bedroom window to see Eric wrap his paws around Darren. They kissed long and hard, Darren clinging around the older man's neck while Eric's hand once again slithered down the teen's back. Steve saw those unclean, calloused fingers dig into his friend's athletic shorts, surely bruising the flesh underneath. Darren's lips parted in a silent keen. Steve tore his eyes away from the sight. He nearly ripped the curtain off trying to conceal the scene unfolding outside. He could hear them. In his head, he heard the small chuckle in the back of Eric's throat as he kissed Darren.

_Steve rammed his fist into Eric's face, feeling the bones crack and give under his force. _

He heard Darren's soft moans, the ones that inevitably caused Eric to smirk with pride.

_Steve wailed into Eric's face over and over again, marveling at the blood that stained his knuckles and drained the life from that fucker's face. _

He heard Eric's grunts, how his thrusts shook the car, how he desecrated his best friend in that fucking car.

_He'll murder him. Steve clutched at the lump of bone and flesh that was once Eric's disgusting visage and watched the light leave him._

Steve Leonard was in control. The fresh hole in his wall and the broken fingers in his right hand were a testament to that restraint.


	2. Odoacer

Chapter Two: Odoacer

* * *

"So, how'd you get the broken hand?" Asked a young woman. The framed diploma over her leather chair read 'April Shanahan,' though Steve only knew her as Mrs. Fairfield. Judging by the sizable rock on her ring finger and her overall positive disposition, Steve assumed 'Fairfield' was her husband's name. The diploma from King's University rested in a dark, cherry wood frame. This not only matched the wood floor and door but complemented the rest of the office expertly. The decor was mainly large cream-white pieces, like the sofa Steve sat on currently and the armchair Mrs. Fairfield reclined in, offset by navy colored nicknacks and accents. The circle rug, throw pillows, and random inspirational quotes framed about her office were all the exact same shade of blue. This at first was very off-putting to Steve. When he was recommended to Mrs. Fairfield 7 months ago, the color-coordination pissed him off to no end. He knew color psychology. The whites and blues were supposed to inspire calmness, tranquility, trust, relaxation, blah, blah, blah… but it all felt false. So what if sitting in a blue room for an hour put his psychology in this weird state of calming bullshit? It would all dissipate the minute he left. But Mrs. Fairfield, with her unassuming features and plain kind of beauty, struck Steve. Mainly for how unremarkable she looked. Mrs. Fairfield wasn't a gorgeous woman, but Steve found her rather attractive as far as therapists go. She was a tall woman of lean build with ashen brown hair and a heart-shaped face. Her mouth was small with full lips, and her almond eyes sat behind simple frames. In a way, her plain features expressed a greater calmness than her color-fucked psychology-trip of an office ever could. Her eyes were not prying nor did they hold an unapproachable and cutting insight. Mrs. Fairfield was a type of inviting, calm entity Steve rarely found in his life. And he quite liked her for that.

The calmness he felt, however, was disturbed by Mrs. Fairfield's hideous hands. Particularly her knobby witch-fingers. Her joints and knuckles were huge, way out of proportion with her otherwise slender frame, and marred by what Steve could only assume was _life_. The way Mrs. Fairfield folded them over her knee augmented their near grotesque appearance. Despite her unsightly hands, she always dressed sharply. But not too sharply. A gold bracelet adorned her left hand along with her wedding ring, and the right boasted a charm bracelet with about a dozen or so little trinkets. Her black skirt was clean and business-like, but nothing overtly highbrow. Her blouse was more the same but Steve could tell the faded off-yellow use to be a crisp white. Other therapists Steve saw in the past either went one of two directions: They wore fucking monkey suits and flaunted their income, or they looked homeless. But Mrs. Fairfield didn't boast or looked like she lived in squalor. She just looked normal. And that put Steve at ease for some reason. He liked her.

"I fucked up my hand boxing. Didn't wrap it up right, ya'know?" He liked her. But he still had to lie to her. It wasn't anything against Mrs. Fairfield personally, shit, not even Darren knew how he really got the injury. That be a great topic of conversation:

"Hey Darren, I was spying on you last week and seeing that fuck-faced wanker feel you up made me so infuriated I've fantasized about murdering him constantly. Also, I put a hole in the wall pretending it was his ugly, ginger face. Wanna catch a movie?"

His mum didn't either, but that took some quick thinking on his part and a well-placed sports illustrated poster. Gott bentshh Elle Macpherson and her tiny itty-bitty bikini.

Mrs. Fairfield gave Steve a knowing eye. "Really?" She asked.

Steve nodded his head in a curt fashion, reclining back in the plush sofa across from his therapist and raising his bandaged hand for good measure. The break was about a week old now, but Steve knew it wouldn't look right after a full recovery. Upon impact, both his forefinger and middle finger jammed in a 'boxer's fracture.' Fitting, right? Both fingers were broken just below the knuckle and would probably stay bent for the rest of his life.

"Hmm." The noise of indifference skirted Steve's ego so wrong. "I didn't think you'd be so careless." She said. "Be more careful next time, yeah?"

Steve knew that she knew he was lying. And this whole interaction was just a way to jab at his pride. "Yeah, yeah… I'll be careful." He said, rolling with it because, damn it, he did not want to talk about Eric. Not about his stupid face, not about Eric groping his best friend, not about his blood-dreams _literally murdering Eric_. Steve was very well acquainted with a number of anger disorders, IED being the one most therapists liked to throw his way, but like Hell he'd let them prescribe him meds. Steve knew what the antidepressants and mood stabilizers did. He'd rather be a slightly (alright, maybe _extremely_) more aggressive human than a flat, monotone husk. Besides, he didn't hit Eric. He never even touched the guy. Sure, he has the occasional dream/ day-rage where he murders the wanker but never has he actually hit the guy. Like Mrs. Fairfield said in one of their first sessions 'find a healthy, safe outlet for your more aggressive emotions.' The wall is a healthy alternative to the human face, so, from where he was sitting, his impulse control was stellar.

"So, besides the hand," Mrs. Fairfield said as she rested back in her own chair. "How've you been, Stephen? Any issues or situations where you were able to exercise some of the techniques we discussed?"

"Uh...Well, I kinda hugged my mum this week. We also had dinner together, like at the table for the first time in years that wasn't for Hanukkah. She cooked. I, uh, tried to help but I'm kinda shit in the kitchen."

Mrs. Fairfield gave him a genuine smile as if she were truly happy with Steve's progress. "That's wonderful to hear!" She beamed. "What was it like? Dinner, the conversation over dinner, all that?"

"Dinner was really good, actually. We talked about work and school, all the regular stuff. I even helped clean up afterward, so it was good." Steve felt himself grow reminiscent over the scene. "My mum's been crazy about baking and cooking and all that shit, so the kitchen's always a fucking disaster." He chuckled, his damaged hand covering his mouth as he remembered the mountain of dishes, flour caking the countertop, and his mum smelling of freshly baked jam and fried dough. "But everything she makes is fucking delicious, it's unbelievable. She made sufganiyot-"

Mrs. Fairfield gave a perplexed look, her pen stalling over the notepad. "Are those the little donuts with strawberry jelly in them?" She asked though Steve could tell she was running a backlog of all their sessions to parse the answer.

"Yup, 5 points to the gentile," Steve said with a smirk. Though he hadn't considered himself a practicing Jew for 5 years, the Yiddish and crippling fear of men with shaved heads persisted. Certain words and phrases that he knew since childhood like 'Bubbe,' ' Tante,' 'Ess drek und shtarbn' (thanks Ferter Hiram for that last one) just slipped without much thought.

"Well, I'll take my points, and that's all wonderful to hear, Stephen." Mrs. Fairfield said with a small laugh before circling back to the more meaty part of their discussion. She placed her notepad on the side table next to her armchair, folding her knobby hands over her knee. They flexed in unison. Small cracks resonated through the cozy room. She was gearing up for the real questions.

Steve felt his chest clench.

"What about familial intimacy?" Mrs. Fairfield came in with the big guns blazing. "You said you and your mum embraced, right?" She asked.

Steve gave a tepid nod. If she wanted to call a side-hug an 'embrace' that's her prerogative.

"Well, that's amazing progress!" She said, unclasping her large fingers to fold them over her chest. "Remember when you first started seeing me? You barely even called her 'mum,' and now the two of you are having dinner together and doing chores together. These little moments like hugging, even if they seem inconsequential, can facilitate bigger steps towards a healthy relationship."

Steve wanted to agree with her. It all made sense when she laid it out all nice and orderly in front of him like a game plan. Spend time with his mum, talk with his mum, have dinner and do all the regular family shit with his mum. That sounded so easy. It should've been easy. But in practice, Steve found the plight of 'familial intimacy' a grande and impossible task.

"She said she loves me," Steve said. "Which, that by itself isn't weird, she says it a lot now…" Steve felt his chest clench again, memories rolling over his heart and pressing the organ deeper and deeper into his ribcage. "But I never say it back to her, not really. I mean, fuck, I do love my mum, but I can't say it." The truth of the situation left Steve feeling vulnerable; open in a way that he rarely ever felt. He hated it.

"But, Stephen," Mrs. Fairfield said with concern, but also a chuckle of disbelief. "You did just say you loved her."

"Well, I'm saying it to _you_." Steve pointed out. "But not to her, and that's the whole problem. If I know she loves me and if I know that I love her, then what's so fuckin' hard about saying it?"

"What matters is that you're acknowledging those emotions, Stephen. You can't force yourself to heal, and you can't force the speed at which you and your mum reconnect." Mrs. Fairfield gave him that trademarked stance known as Therapeutic Sympathy ™. Her brows were slightly raised; attentive yet colored by a slight concern. Her mouth laid pursed across her face as if she were contemplating some 1,000 piece puzzle. And, of course, she leaned in closer to Steve. After many therapy sessions from multiple therapists, Steve knew the stance and its purpose well. Above all else, the stance was meant to show 'genuine interest.' And Mrs. Fairfield was laying the stance on hard. "The important thing is that both of you are making great progress and spending quality time together. Ever heard the phrase 'Rome wasn't built in a day'?"

Steve gave a snort. "Cliche, much?"

"It really is," Mrs. Fairfield agreed "but do you understand what I'm trying to say? The fact that you want to reconnect so quick is great, but forcing it will only set you both up for disaster."

"Shit," Steve leaned into Mrs. Fairfield's stance and analogy. "Rome still fell, right? The empire just got so massive that it became impossible to make up for the distance in communication, culture, power… It's a wonder it even lasted as long as it did with all the grabs for power and political warfare. I mean, I understand the analogy, really..." His speech tapered off as he pondered the true implications of Rome and his home life. Fuck, of his life_ period_.

"Didn't you say history was your favorite subject?" Mrs. Fairfield said with a light chuckle, but her eyes darted over Steve's countenance. Her face faltered and her brows knitted up upon her face as she asked: "What's wrong, Stephen?"

"Like, it's great that Rome stood for so long… It's impressive, but just to keep all those territories together drained the life out of the region. I mean, fuck, Rome was in decline for maybe half of its existence as an empire? Rome maybe got, what? Fifty years of true, unequivocal prosperity? All that energy, all that time, and they still collapsed. It took just one asshole of a Germanic soldier to tear it down." Vitality drained from Steve as he spoke. He felt his hand and chest give a pitiful ache, but the prospect of figuring out exactly _why_ seemed futile.

"It's interesting that you affix on the efforts and failure of the analogy, rather than the simple meaning: You can't rush progress." Mrs. Fairfield stated softly. "But why do you think you're associating this concept of failure to your relationship with your mum?"

"I don't know…" Steve always hated that question. How the fuck was he supposed to know? That's why he's in therapy! "Maybe I don't believe her? Like, a part of me still doesn't want to believe her or doesn't want to believe that this'll all work?"

"Some part of you believes that no matter how hard you try, no matter what you do or how you do it, it'll just crumble in the end?" Mrs. Fairfield donned a sympathetic look, one that looked too genuine to just be apart of the stance. "Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know," Steve said as the exacerbation set in. "I never really thought she loved me when I was younger. My mum didn't act how other mums acted, really." That was an understatement. Since Steve was 6 he essentially took care of himself. His mother's alcoholism prevented her from being anything close to a mother. There were so many days where he walked home from school because his mother didn't show up. He'd come back to a dark house, his mother strung out on the couch and barely dressed for work. She'd wake soon after Steve arrived home usually, crawling out of the couch and fumbling for her keys. As she passed Steve on the way out to her car, she would give him a sloppy hug and a kiss to the cheek. She reeked of what Steve would recognize as gin and tonic when he grew older. She'd mumble something Steve could never parse as she limped out of the house with her car keys in hand. Sometimes she whipped together instant mac and cheese for him. But most days Steve went hungry. There were a few times young Steve managed to not burn himself on the stove and make something halfway decent, but hot pockets filled most of his dinners. So Steve, sitting alone in his room as his stomach growled and as his fingers burned from a pitiful microwave dinner, would curse his mother. Wish her dead. Pray to whatever God who could put a child through this to kill his mother in a drunk driving accident.

'If she was gone, then Dad can just take me back...' This was his thought that graced his young mind a lot back in those days. Steve often fantasized about something horrible happening to his mother when he was younger just so his father could save him. Whisk him away with his new, pretty wife and make everything better. But his father, in every way that mattered, was no father.

"How do you feel other mums act or are suppose to act?" Mrs. Fairfield asked.

"I mean, I don't really know, just as a kid you can tell when somethings' fucked up, right?" Granted, it took Steve a _long_ time to realize his parent's relationship was unhealthy, and even _longer _to get out of the habits formed by that relationship. But somewhere deep inside Steve liked to believe that his younger self knew that his family lacked normalcy.

"Let me rephrase that: When you think of a mother, what or who do you think of?"

Steve didn't even have to contemplate that one. "Mrs. Shan, Darren's mum."

"What about her specifically? Is she a stern mother, or possible more dotting? What do you think drew you to her?"

"She always liked having me around, ya know? And I loved going to Darren's when we were younger because I got to hang out with my best friend for, like, weeks on end during the summer. And she's a pretty great cook too. Like, as a kid, when I first started goin' to Darren's all the time I would just eat and eat like there was no tomorrow. I'd fight his Dad sometimes for thirds." Steve chuckled at the memory of Dermot Shan, with a heavy heart, gracing his young self with the final porkchop at the behest of his wife.

"_Dermot!" Angela Shan chided with her Irish soprano. "Steve's a guest and Darren's friend, let the poor lad eat." _

"_Alright, alright…" Dermot conceded his pork chop, and Steve wolfed it down much to the giggles and amusement of Darren and a 5-year-old Annie. _

"_Wait," Dermont paused. "Can you eat pork? I thought you were Jewish?" _

_Steve also paused but quickly resumed his dinner. He didn't care if it wasn't kosher, he was starving. "Can I just be Catholic while I'm here?" He asked, completely serious. _

_Angela and Dermot went into a fit of laughter. Mrs. Shan had a hearty laugh that seemed to complement her husband's affinity for knee-slapping. They seemed to go on for what felt like hours. Steve almost felt self-conscious for his remark, but the way Darren smiled at him made him feel okay like he did something good just then. After the Shans re-composed themselves, and Steve found himself half-way through his third plate, Dermot gave him another helping of mashed potatoes himself. _

The memory stuck out as one of Steve's best moments with Darren. It brought a strange comfort to the tense situation of therapy, but he had to beat back those warm feelings.

"Were the Shans aware of your mother's addiction at the time?" Mrs. Fairfield asked.

Steve mulled over the question as he feigned thought, but he knew the Shan's had to have known.

"I guess. Why else would they let me stick around for so long?"

"Maybe they liked having you around."

Steve fell silent. His chest swelled with the memory again, the warmth and comfort of the meal and the Shan family filling his body like a gentle fire. As quickly as the feeling trapped his heart, Steve pushed them down once more. It felt like swallowing a large pill. His throat burned, and a pit seemed to drag down his esophagus before invading in his stomach. Steve was hallow. His chest and stomach shook with the turmoil brewing within, the happiness of the memory battling with its reality. He wouldn't indulge himself with those kinds of thoughts. To ever think about the Shans enjoying his presence would set Steve up for failure. He was tolerated, and Steve made his peace with that a long time ago. He was the poor kid from a broken home that his best friend's parents pitied. And the Shans were nice people. They couldn't just send Steve back to his alcoholic mother, right? No, they couldn't. And Steve knew if he ever thought anything different he'd just fuck himself over.

"Stephen?" Mrs. Fairfield asked. "Did I hit a sore spot?"

"N-no, no, it's all good." He said quickly. " I just never thought of it that way." Steve lied, but this one would go unnoticed.

"You've never thought of your best friend's family enjoying your company? How long have they known you and your family?"

Steve shook his head at her question, but he did think about it. A lot. "Right before my dad left, Darren's family moved from Dublin to our neighborhood. I was like 5, maybe 6? So most of my life." Steve said.

"Wow, quite an enduring friendship then. How's the friendship been since his coming out?"

"It was really rocky at first, totally my fault," Steve said. He kept those memories tightly locked for the moment.

Mrs. Fairfield nodded in agreeance. "I remember when everything happened. Mainly because you missed quite a few appointments. I got rather worried, so I hope everything's at least better?"

"We've been really tight the past few months since it all went down. I think last week was maybe the first real, normal week we've had in a while. It's still a little weird between us, but it's all so much better." Steve couldn't hide the joy in his voice, adding a small chuckle to the end of his words. He held a soft smile on his face. He thought of the lunch breaks spent reading comics, hanging in the courtyard with Tommy and Alan like old times, going through practice drills for rugby and football. Darren running across the field into the arms of-

Steve's face fell. _That fucker tainted everything._

Mrs. Fairfield took notice of Steve's sudden demeanor change. "Oh, that's quite a look…" She flexed her knuckles again. More pops and cracks filled the air. "What brought that on, Stephen?"

Steve contemplated just how much he should tell her about Eric. On the one hand, she _was_ his therapist. On the other, she was his_ therapist_.

"I've uh…" He paused, mulling over the right words. "I've been having some issues with Darren's boyfriend. Eric." Steve couldn't help the inevitably seething tone that accompanied the name.

Mrs. Fairfield took immediate notice of Steve's thinly veiled rage, readying her pen."What kind of issues?"

"I hate him."

"Oh." She blinked at his candor. Her pen stalled, but she quickly took up her notes once more. "Any particular reason?"

_There are a million fucking reasons._ "He's way too fucking old for Darren, there's like a six-year age difference but Darren doesn't see anything wrong or weird about it."

"Well, many couples have decades between them. And there's nothing illegal in a 17-year-old dating someone much older than them."

"Sure, there's nothing illegal, but it's a least a little morally fucked up, right?" Steve looked at his therapist in bewilderment. Was he really the only one who saw just how_ fucked up _this whole situation was?!

"Well, you seem very upset by their age difference. What about Eric being older worries you so much?"

"I mean, it's like when an older guy gets with a younger girl, isn't it? They only want _one thing_, don't they?"

"Well, I wouldn't know." Mrs. Fairfield said blankly. "He's closer to your age, so you have a greater insight into that than I do. Do you feel that way around Eric, that he's using Darren? Or are you assuming these things as, maybe, a form of projection?"

"I mean, yeah." If there was one thing Steve felt he could really be honest with his therapist about, it was his raging sex life. Mostly because he was rather_ proud _of his prowess, but also it seemed like the one thing he was making great strides in. He didn't sleep around much anymore, and he could see himself getting serious with someone down the line pretty soon. "When I 'dated,' even if you want to use that word, I always went for the younger ones cause they put out." Upon saying that, Steve was reminded of how much of a sleazebag he could be. "But I never dated someone 6 years younger than me!" He quickly added in an attempt to save himself a little face.

"I would hope not, that would make them 11 and you a pedophile." Mrs. Fairfield quipped back. She ignored the look of pure disgust that plagued Steve's face as she carried on. "And I didn't mean projection from your sex life, but rather your physical past with Darren."

Steve felt his pace quicken. He might've likened himself to Eric in select situations, but never _those _situations. "W-what do you mean by 'physical past?'" He asked.

"Well, if I remember from our previous sessions, you use to be rather physical with Darren in both an intimate and sometimes violent way. The two of you use to hug and wrestle, even share the same bed during sleepovers in your youth, but you were also excessively violent with him at times."

Steve's face fell. His blood simmered on the edge of explosion. Memories loomed at the cusp of his consciousness as a boiling, rolling ire crept closer and closer to the surface. It had been a long time since Steve was ever violent with Darren. Young boys got into scraps all the time, right? And while Steve took it a bit far at times, Darren knew he never_ actually_ meant to hurt him...Right? The more Steve recounted their past, and how the memories of bruised knees and scraped legs filled his head, he became less and less sure.

"Yeah," Steve said cautiously "but why do you think I'm projecting? Darren's my best friend, Eric's his boyfriend, so I'm just getting a bad feeling from my best friend's boyfriend. He's too old for him, he's not nearly_ good enough_ for him-"

"_Good enough_?" Mrs. Fairfield chewed on his words like they were Kobe-fucking-beef. "That's an interesting take on the situation…"

Steve kicked himself mentally. Like all therapists, she was going to run with a tiny, insignificant nugget of information to spin into this outrageously sharp and scarily accurate knife to eviscerate his psyche. "Look." Steve began, trying to reign in his therapist's inherent need to psychoanalyze. "Darren's my best friend. I was a prat when we were younger, like, _a huge fuckin' prat_, but I just don't want to see him get hurt, that s'all."

"I understand Stephen, I just thought it was interesting that you phrased your feelings in such a way. It almost sounds like, and don't misunderstand me, but it almost sounds like you're jealous of this Eric bloke."

Steve gave his therapist a look. While his visage could've been read a number of ways, the most accurate translation would've been:_ Are you fucking serious? _

When Mrs. Fairfield maintained her composure and neutral expression, laughter erupted forth from Steve's core. And it wasn't just a few chuckles here and there or even the deep laughter that came from your gut, but the rib-cracking cackles you felt rumble in your _balls_.

Steve wiped a few stray tears from his eyes and tried to gather himself a few times before falling back into a fit of sniggers at the mere thought of it. "Jealous?!" He finally said, a few final chuckles slipping out with his words. "You think I'm jealous of that ginger, fuck-faced wanker?"

"Based on your reaction, extremely." She deadpanned. "It seems like a lot of this anger you feel for Eric is partly due to legitimate concerns, but mainly I feel that your anger is coming from a place of fear and jealousy."

"So, not _only _am I projecting onto Eric, but I'm also jealous _and_ afraid of him?" Steve just couldn't, in any universe, timeline, weird-other dimensional pocket of existence, ever imagine himself being afraid of Eric. Yeah, the dude had some guns on him and worked out, but Steve could wipe the floor with him any day of the week.

"When I say 'fear,'" Mrs. Fairfield began "I don't mean in a physical sense, but rather an emotional sense. Eric fills a position with Darren that you can't: Lover."

Steve choked on his own spit at the word. The memories of Darren kissing Eric on the field twisted in his mind. Instead of Eric's frame looming over Darren, his hands roaming over the brunet's body, Steve pictured himself filling the role for a split second. His own hands snaked down Darren's sides before resting atop the curve of his ass. He imagined, only briefly in that split second how the supple, firm flesh would feel beneath his fingertips. How his nails would dig into the swell of Darren's shapely ass, the light moans, and pleas for_ more _that would escape his friend's mouth-

Steve shook his head violently, blocking out the rest of that scenario. He was a healthy 17-year-old man with an insane libido. A plump peach could get him going in the right circumstances, so small fantasies here and there weren't too strange. But like Hell he was going to get a fuckin' boner during a therapy session for his male best friend.

"Eric can be there in ways that you just can't for Darren." Mrs. Fairfield continued on. "And this is a very reasonable fear to have at your age with University coming up so fast. You might feel as if you're losing Darren after spending so much time building and re-building your friendship after this most recent fallout. As children, it seems that you intimidated Darren into staying around. But now that you're older and have outgrown that phase, Eric's presence, to you, not only threatens Darren's well-being but your friendship with him as well. In a way, this mimics the issues you're having with your mother. You seem to be trying very hard to repair both relationships rapidly without contemplating the damage this might cause later. In an attempt to get closer to your mum and Darren, you're actually keeping them at an arms-length."

Steve was silent. Wasn't it normal to want to fix things as quickly as possible? He'd acknowledged how much of an asshole to the people who cared about him most in his life, so wasn't it natural to just want to make it all better? He never gave much thought to being jealous of Eric. Sure, Darren spent an alarming amount of time with Eric and their physical contact made him uncomfortable, but it wasn't anything more than that.

"Stephen?" Mrs. Fairfield asked after a particularly long silence. "How do you feel after hearing that?"

Steve shrugged his shoulders. He was utterly defeated now. "I don't know." He said. "I never thought what I was doing was self-destructive or unhealthy, I just thought 'Shit, I'm an asshole' and 'Shit, I miss Darren,' but when you say all that? I don't know, it makes me scared that maybe I have been pushing Darren and my mum away without even realizing it."

"Though we've discussed you and your mother's relationship at great lengths, we've haven't spoken deeply about your issues with Darren. I get the overwhelming sense that you want to protect him far beyond what normal friendships call for. Why is that?"

"He's all I have," Steve said. "Even with my mum and me gettin' better, Darren is still the best thing I have in my life."

"When do you think this need to protect Darren so ferociously began?"

Steve felt his mind recede into itself. He parsed back the years of their friendship. Steve had always protected Darren. Whether it was from those sore teenagers they would beat in football, to random kids who just wanted to pick a fight, Steve would always be Darren's first and only line of defense. But he was drawn to one cold, windy night from middle school. They weren't supposed to be out that night. They weren't supposed to be in that part of town. They weren't supposed to go to that Freak Show.

"_Cirque du Freak._" The phrase rolled over his tongue without so much as a breath. Memories took a vice grip upon Steve's consciousness. The cold of that abandoned theater seeped back into his bones. Images of a tall man in red funneled back into his head. A feeling of utter terror, excitement, and hope mixed into a deadly concoction within his stomach.

_Steve found himself splitting his fingernails. He chewed on them in anticipation as he worked up the courage to just move. He paced back and forth behind the well lite stage, though he knew the shadows did little to cover himself. _

"_He's a freakin' vampire, stupid!" Steve whispered to himself. He knew who this supposed Mr. Crepsley really was the moment he saw him. The orange hair, pale skin, and that distinctive scar taking up his left cheek were unmistakable. He wasn't just some sideshow freak with an affinity for spiders. He was Vur Horston, a vampire! "He could see you a mile away in pitch blackness, the hells' this gonna do?!" As Steve argued with himself, he tried calming down enough to actually rehearse what he was going to say to Vur Horston. After reading enough online forums, Steve knew what to expect. He'd threaten him, probably, but Steve planned for that. He'd persuade him to reconsider the harsh life of a vampire, but Steve knew the Hell of that life was Heaven compared to his own. He'd tell him how deeply he 'd miss being human, but Steve could only think of one thing that would ever make him reconsider: Darren. _

_And for how much he'd miss Darren, Steve knew he couldn't stay with his mum, stay in this town, or stay in this life another day. Darren had friends. Darren had a family. Darren had everything. What would it matter if Steve just vanished? Life would be normal here soon, and Steve would be-_

_A piercing scream cut Steve's thoughts short. He jumped out of his skin at how shrill and blood-curdling it was, like something straight out of a horror movie. But the scream was so familiar. He heard that scream during the freak show, when they watched horror movies together in secret, when the wolf-man ripped that woman's arm clean off-_

_ "Darren!?" Steve screamed into the empty theater only for deep, guttural cries to reply. Earth shattering cracks, like human bone breaking with brute force, and yowls of sheer pain distorted Steve's mind. Every horrible, unspeakable reality came to fruition in that moment. _

_Steve rushed out of the theater without any clear thought, shouting for his friend as he ran like a madman. "Darren!" He cried, slamming the exit door open as street light flooded his vision. The light burned. Frigid wind nearly took the flesh off his bones. His eyes were frantic, scanning the area for any signs of his friend, a struggle, anything. "Darren! Darren, where are you?!" Steve felt hot tears prick the corners of his eyes. His voice hurt from screaming, but he strained on, calling for his friend over and over again. Passerby's looked at him, some even tried to help, but Steve was so far gone. Between fearing for his friend and fearing for his own life, a single thought grated his brain: "It's my fault." He said to himself. "This is all my fault." His vision and mind became one track: find Darren. _

_On the fifth block, just past the park, he finally saw him. Darren was lagging, his chest heaving so heavily that Steve could clearly see each breath escaping into the cold air from such a distance. _

_Out of pure exhaustion, Darren collapsed onto the cobbled street. _

_Steve sprinted, calling for Darren as he crumpled down to his friend's side. He grabbed his friend's shoulder, trying to turn him over but the brunet gave a guttural shriek._

_ "GET OFF ME!" He screamed, fighting and clawing at his assailant like his life depended on it. Darren punched and kicked madly on the ground, giving Steve a few good hits before Steve had the chance to calm him down._

_ "Darren, it's me! It's me! It's Steve, Dare!" Steve cried, trying to grab each punch as they came. His hands ached and burned from the sheer force of Darren's desperation._

_ Darren stilled, snapping his eyes open in pure terror. _

_Steve could barely make out Darren's pupils. He was so terrified that they constricted into near non-existence within the green of his irises. _

_They stared on in shock before speaking ever so quietly: "S-steve?" Darren whispered. His face was blown raw from the cold wind, but he was sweating profusely. It's like every nerve of his body was screaming at him to keep running. But now, in his friend's arms, without the heat of adrenaline to keep him going, he began shaking. Pieces of dark brown hair were soaked through with perspiration and blood from the scraps that littered his right cheek and forehead. Darren's knees and elbows were banged up too, a nasty, purplish bruise growing under the skin of his right knee. A dark spot became apparent over the front of Darren's jeans. _

_ "Crap, Dare, what happened?" Steve asked. _

_ "I-I don't know!" He cried, fresh tears springing to his eyes. "I tried to follow your voice up the stairs, I didn't know what you were doing and I was s-s-so scared for you-" _

_Steve's heart clenched at those words. _

"_-and right before I got to the balcony th-th-this-this__** thing**__, this thing just grabbed me!" Darren said, gripping onto Steve's shoulders. "It-it threw me down the stairs...and then I saw its face… and… and-" He broke into sobs, burying his face into the warmth of Steve's sweater. _

_Steve felt Darren's tears and snot soak through the collar of his shirt, but all he could do was hold him. He wanted to say something then, but he knew his words couldn't make this living nightmare cease. Steve nuzzled his cheek into Darren's wind-blown hair, rubbing his back and tightening his grip around his friend. _

_Steve gathered up Darren from the middle of the street. He disrobed his own sweater, now stained with blood, snot, and tears, and wrapped it around Darren as they walked back to Darren's house. At the time, Steve knew the shivering wasn't from the cold. His friend's convulsions were from pure fear and the crashing adrenaline rush. But Steve didn't know what else to do. So he wrapped Darren in his own sweater and tucked him under his arm. _

_Darren kept his face buried in Steve's chest as they walked, his hands twisted up in the front of Steve's shirt like the hand of death. Though Darren's brain was fried, Steve was hyper-aware of their surroundings. _

_As they finally rounded the corner of Darren's street, Steve remained vigilant for shadows in the dark, a pair of eyes peering through the night, a flash of red at the corner of his vision…_

_Steve was the one to knock on the door of the Shan home. It took a good 10 minutes of knocking before Dermot Shan opened the door with a freight. _

"_B-boys?!" His voice was muffled with sleep, but the anger and fear were more than apparent._

"_Darren?!" Angela Shan cried at the sight of her son. "By God, what happened?!" She pulled him away from Steve's grasp instinctively and clutched him close to her shapely frame. Mrs. Shan hugged her son tight to her chest, Darren more than relieved to be in the arms of his loving mother once more. _

_Steve heard Darren mumbling something into his mother's chest, but she shushed away his cries and stroked his hair with delicate, albeit shaky fingers. _

_As Angela and Darren embraced, Dermot called Sarah Leonard for the fourth time. _

_Steve stood in front of the door, head downcasted to avoid the burning judgment of Darren's parents. In those wee hours of the morning, Steve didn't know whether to be thankful or embarrassed that his mother didn't pick up. _

_Upon the fifth call, and still no answer, Mr. Shan gave an exasperated sigh. He stepped over to the kitchen and grabbed his car keys off the counter with almost no sound. As he held his keys up to Steve's line of sight, the young boy knew very well what was happening. Dermot gave his wife and son a quick, yet firm embrace as he made his way to the front door. _

_Steve only made brief eye contact with Mr. Shan in that moment. As Dermont Shan held the door open for him, Steve felt the coldness of his gaze; it pierced the young boy down to his core, daring him to walk out that door and never set eyes on his house, family, or son again. The fact that Mr. Shan was even offering to take him home was a kindness Steve didn't deserve. This situation, the cuts on Darren's face, the tears staining his shirt, the fear engulfing his mind, all of it was Steve's fault. He put his best friend in danger, and for what? Some stupid, idiotic vampire fantasy? The weight of his own mistakes felt crippling under the gaze of Dermot Shan, and in that moment curling up in his bed, locked away from the world, seemed like sweet relief. _

_But as Dermont ushered Steve out the door, a small whimper trailed behind. Steve turned around to see Darren rip away from his mother's grasp. _

_In seconds Darren locked his arms around Steve's neck, begging into his shirt collar words that broke whatever will Steve had left. _

"_Don't leave me…! Please, please don't leave me, Steve." Darren cried in a pained whisper. _

_Tears spilled over at the corner of Steve's eyes, rolling over his cheeks as he held Darren close. "M' so sorry, Dare…" Steve whispered in his own broken voice. "I'm so fuckin' sorry." His words became strangled sobs, losing all sensable coherence in the wake of his grievances. As Steve held his friend, Angela crouched behind Darren, soothing her son with soft whispers and delicate circles massaged into his back. _

_In that moment, the air shifted. Angela and Dermont Shan, mere moments ago fuming with rage and utter fear, looked on at the boys sympathetically. Steve recalled the look on Angela's face clearly: though she still looked terrified to pieces, her eyes had softened and her mouth parted in mournful reverence. She looked to her husband with the same eyes Steve witnessed, and, as if commanded by a higher power, Dermot shut the front door behind him. He dropped his keys into his pajama pocket, before breathing a heavy sigh. _

_The rest of the night was a blur, but Steve recalled the way Darren clung to his chest vividly. After changing into clean pajamas and both boys receiving goodnight hugs and kisses from Mrs. Shan, Darren insisted that Steve slept in his bed. Without hesitation or protest, Steve laid beside Darren. _

_As Steve looked up at the ceiling, finally processing the events of the night, Darren scooted closer. _

_In a small, near pitiful voice, Darren asked "S-steve? Are you still awake?" _

"_Yeah. I don't think I can sleep." He replied. _

"_Me either…" Darren said. His voice warbled like he was on the edge of tears again. _

_Steve would've looked over, comforted his friend in some way if he knew how, but he'd witnessed Darren cry so much in the past few hours. Anymore and Steve felt that he would've broken down completely too. _

"_Steve…?" Darren asked once more in a much smaller, hesitant tone. _

"_Yeah, Dare?" Steve still didn't look over, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Darren's mouth part and close; gather up the words behind his tongue before dashing them away. _

"_C-could you, uh…" He paused for a few seconds, just long enough for Steve to build his courage. _

_He turned his head to see Darren's face. That was a __**mistake**__: Darren curled the thick blanket over his head, framing his tear stained cheeks and glassy eyes in dark green plaid. His mouth was partly covered with only a hint of his top lip poking out. Steve noticed how it quivered under the blanket. Though the cuts and bruises littered Darren's face, Steve didn't notice them. All he saw were Darren's eyes, those insanely green, red-rimmed eyes looking up at him with the most pleading shine. _

"_Could you hold me?" Darren asked finally. _

_Steve said nothing. Rather, he pulled Darren close to his chest and held him tight. Darren curled into Steve readily, tucking his head under Steve's chin and murmuring 'Thank you' against his friend's sleeping shirt. As Darren's breathing relaxed and fell into the rhythm of sleep, Steve too felt himself drift. He inhaled the scent of his friend's hair deeply before drifting away. _

Steve found himself out of his own memories with Mrs. Fairfield's eyes positioned on the clock directly behind his head.

"Went right to the bell, didn't we?" She said. "Next time we can unpack the 'Cirque Incident,' but I feel like this a good stopping place. We'll pick this up on the-" She quickly flipped a few pages in her notebook, stopping on a center page. "- 26th of this month. That sounds good?"

Steve nodded and began raising off the sofa. His head felt muffled like someone smothered all his senses with a cloth dishrag. Not only were his memories of that night harrowing in their own right, but the implications of this session left him all the more confused about Darren. Rather than feeling accomplished, Steve felt more lost and frustrated.

"We made a lot of progress today, and I'm very pleased with how open you're being." Mrs. Fairfield gave Steve a genuine smile as she led him out of the office into the waiting room.

Steve reciprocated the gesture, but they both knew full well he was keeping something out of their sessions. But, despite the pang of guilt that rolled through his stomach and the utter hollowness he felt, Steve appreciated her gentle, respectful nature.

"Also, I can't _believe_ they let you box at Left Hook without proper wraps. You need to be more careful, or else you'll end up with hands like mine." Mrs. Fairfield raised her hands up in front of her delicate face, flexing her scarred knuckles and crooked joints.

Steve had to double-back at his therapist from the threshold of her office. "What?!" He laughed out in pure shock. "You boxed?!"

"I _box_, Stephen." She corrected with an excellent jab to Steve's right shoulder. There wasn't nearly enough force for the move to be painful, but her form was perfect. The upwards snap emulated a cracking whip, yet the motion was relaxed and practiced. She was a _pro_.

"No way! I just thought you had fucked up hands." Steve exclaimed. Upon examining her hands closely, Steve felt stupid for _not_ knowing. Despite her tiny frame, her hands looked just like some of the trainers at Left Hook.

"Well, boxing and punching walls for a decade will ruin your hands." Mrs. Fairfield said, glancing at Steve's own hand.

Steve stuffed it into his jacket pocket, dull aches radiating from the bone up towards the flesh from the rough treatment.

"Honestly, Stephen," She said. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I'm your therapist. My job isn't to coax anything out of you, my job is to help you deal with the issues you feel like tackling. So, if you don't want to tell me something or talk about a certain issue, that's fine. But_ that_-" She pointed at his jacket pocket housing the hand in question. "-you need to tell someone about_ that_. Because, trust me on this, that is going to turn into something if you don't deal with it."

Steve gave her an understanding nod, knowing full well she was more than right. As he walked out of the psychiatry office, his broken hand pulsed and ached. His mind did the same. And the images of Darren, his best friend in the whole world, melting under his touch left him with a feeling of utter shame as it replayed over and over again in his aching brain.


	3. It's Happening Again

Chapter 3: It's Happening Again

* * *

The bus to Bristol was uneventful. Steve sat in the window seat and watched the urban landscape pass him in a flurry of lights, bodies, and pubs. Time seemed to blur. The hour-long ride dwindled to mere seconds with the pistoning wheeze of the breaks. The bus came to an abrupt stop, but Steve's eyes still wandered on the last bar. The one thing he loved about visiting his Dad and half-brother: Close proximity to bars and pubs with lax carding policies. It seemed like the motto for any merchant of ale and beer in Bristol was when in doubt, sell'em a drink.

And while Steve _usually _kept on the path of straight and narrow recently, a drink after visiting his father was often needed. He was the only passenger to get off at the intersection that didn't beeline straight to a pub. The more he stared and longed, the harder it was to resist getting absolutely smashed after such a grueling therapy session. His broken hand throbbed. His knuckles twitched under the bandages. His tongue swiped against the back of his teeth, and he thought of Darren for only a second.

Then Steve tore his eyes away. He headed south on Collins street in torpid steps, away from the lively bars and pubs and all the wonderful, ambery drinks that would make this visit a bit more bearable.

Steve felt very out of place in his father's neighborhood. Everything reeked of affluence. From the wide streets with landscaped edges to the enormous, expertly trimmed yards to the McMansions that boasted hefty disposable income. And there Steve was, walking those pristine streets with a faded salvage army jacket, maybe five pounds worth of change in said jacket, a busted right hand, and a gait that just screamed 'indigent.' And _maybe _a few grams of low-grade weed for later…

Eventually, Steve rounded the corner of his father's two-story cottage. The property, like many of the other homes, was encircled by a privacy hedge that kept its magnitude enclosed. Even from his place on the street, his view only slightly obstructed by the hedge, Steve could see the stained glass windows on the second floor. Past the colored glass, Steve a figure dart through the upstairs hallway.

Steve gave a content smile as he heard the slam of a heavy door and rapid footsteps breaking into a run. Danny's eager face greeted him as he ran past the driveway, his wavy blond hair flopping over his eyes and forehead in the wind. The tween tackled his elder brother head-on with thin arms and a toothy grin. Danny just turned 14 and he was in that awkward phase between his chubby, adorable kid years and his scrawny, acne-ridden teen years. He'd grown about 6 inches since he was 13, which made his arms, neck, and legs gangly. And while he didn't have full-blown pizza-face acne, Steve noticed those hated little chicken-skin bumps cresting his forehead under the bangs. Yeah, Danny certainly looked the part of the typical tween. But he still acted like a kid. Like, the weird anime-kid that sat behind you in math class who wouldn't shut up about all the dark, edgy shit that happened in Naruto.

"Steve!" Danny shouted in pure joy. "Ready to get wrecked at Mario Kart—Woah!" he stopped, still holding on tight to his big brother's hoodie. "What happened to your hand?! That looks gnarly!" He fucking _giggled. _The kid was a little twisted too, just like his big brother.

"Not as gnarly as the fucker's face I broke it on!" Steve exclaimed, hooking his arm around Danny's neck and administering the obligatory big-bro noogie. "Want me to fuck up your head the same, ya little shit?" Steve laughed, rubbing his good knuckles deep into the crown of Danny's flaxen hair.

Laughing and shrieking ensued as the pair play wrestled their way into the house Danny's feet dangled in the air as Steve hoisted the boy up by his armpits to get a _real _deep noogie in.

"You're gonna give me brain damage, stop! Stop!"

Steve kept on knuckle-fucking his head till they were both on the floor of the foyer.

"Stephen! Daniel Junior!" A shrill voice called from the front of the house.

"Oh, shit," said the brothers in unison.

A lean woman with dark brown hair stomped through the kitchen and living room to rain hellfire upon the boys. "What did I say about roughhousing in my home, hmm?"

"Not to…" Danny said, unlinking himself from Steve's wrestle hold. "Sorry, mum…" It came out like a whimper, and Steve practically gagged at how fast the lad folded.

Then he noticed the pure fire radiating out of her face.

"Yeah, sorry Rebecca…" Steve apologized quickly. Maybe folding was the right idea.

Rebecca Leonard, nee Rothstein, was a stern woman of about 5'3" with straight, chocolate-colored hair and eyes. Her face was set in a perpetual scowl. Her thin lips were in a permanent straight line across her cheeks, and her brows always furrowed as if something left her gravely disappointed. Though she was only 35, her demeanor created deep frown lines along her mouth and forehead, which aged her considerably. All in all, Steve found her absolutely terrifying. Annoying also but mainly terrifying.

"Go get washed up, Danny," Rebecca said with a flick of her dishrag. "Dinner's almost ready, so as soon as your father gets home we'll eat."

"But me and Steve were supposed to hang out today, mum," Danny said. "Can't we just eat in my room?"

"No, you know we don't allow food in the bedrooms. Leave one crumb and the whole house'll be infested with roaches."

Noticing his little brother's defeated expression, Steve gave him a 'thump' with his banged-up hand.

"It's alright lil' man. I can whoop your ass-" Steve felt a very sharp glare come his way. "B-butt, I can whoop your butt after dinner." He quickly corrected himself.

"Thank you, Stephen." It didn't sound like thanks coming from Rebecca, but Steve ignored it as he ushered himself and his brother into the dining room.

Unlike Steve's flat, Rebecca and his father actually _had _a dining room. And like the rest of the house, the dining room was grande and extremely pompous. It wasn't some rickety table shoved into the corner of a matchbox-sized kitchen, but a large, open space with a six-seater solid oak table. The dining room also came complete with a mahogany china cabinet and a chilled fridge for wine. The room resided towards the back of the house, nestled between the kitchen and office with the foyer being its main view into the rest of the home.

Steve did his best to ignore his father's office as he and Danny passed by. He only ventured into his father's study once. The experience was less than satisfying. Though the room was smartly furnished with a walnut roll-top desk and matching twin bookcases featuring a wide range of World War II memorabilia and infantry autobiographies, Steve found himself more interested in the things adorning the office walls. Framed memories of holidays in Moscow and Greece, Danny visiting his grandparents, Rebecca and his father smiling on their wedding day, and all other sorts of happy mementos hung on the walls. But there were no pictures of Steve. None of his birthday parties, Hanukkahs spent with Bubbe Dinah, or even a single baby picture could be found in the house.

If you were a guest in Daniel Sr. and Rebecca Leonard's home, you would've never known that Steve existed. Or that his mother existed, for that fact. Nothing in his father's new, lavish home could be tied to his previous life. And as Steve passed through the glass doors sealing off the dining room from the rest of the home, he was once again reminded of his place. His place outside of this family, this neighborhood, and this world that his father constructed in Bristol.

The table was already set for the most part with three plates and all the fixings out. Whether Rebecca forgot to set a plate out for him or she simply refused to, Steve would never _truly _know.

Before Steve even had time to contemplate his stepmother's stance on his existence, Danny already brought him a set.

"Mum's kinda forgetful lately, sorry," Danny chirped. He smiled at his elder brother as he sat down, two Dr. Peppers in hand.

Steve took the soda with a smile. He twisted open the cap with his good fingers while the other hand kept it steady against his chest. He had no idea where Rebecca found kosher Dr. Pepper—they weren't sold at One Stop—but he wasn't complaining.

However, as Danny sat down, Steve noticed a small, flash of purple slinking around his younger brother's wrist.

Steve felt his heart drop into his stomach. "Shit, did _I _do that?" Steve asked, his finger pointed squarely at Danny's left hand.

Danny didn't even look down at his wrist. He pulled his jacket sleeve over the flesh and shrugged it off.

"Nah, you didn't do anything," Danny said. "I got hurt in gym class, but it's nothing serious."

_Well, now that smells like bullshit. _"And does 'gym class' steal your lunch money too and make bad holocaust jokes?"

Danny fumbled with his soda bottle.

"Is it that fucking 9th-year kid?" asked Steve. "The fuck was his name? Jeremy Donahue? That fucking fat-ass, pizza-faced prat with the beady little eyes? Is he fuckin' with you again?" Steve got out of his chair and bent down to get on Danny's eye-level. He seized up his face, neck, collarbone, every inch of flesh visible on his little brother for evidence of that fucking wanker.

"It's not a big deal, Steve…" Danny said. He pulled away from his brother's prying gaze and tucked his wrist away. "Mum talked with the school, so it shouldn't be a problem."

Steve wasn't convinced with that answer. "You know what I did to kids who told on me?"

Danny shook his head.

"I fucked them up _outside _of school."

"But-"

"No, listen to me," said Steve. "If he fucks with you again tell _me. _Not dad, not Rebecca, _me. _Got it?"

Danny looked uncertain but gave a hesitant nod.

Steve gave his brother a few hearty slaps to the shoulder, muttering "Good lad, good lad" just as his parole officer did on their meetups.

"What will you do…?" Danny asked.

"Beat him up bloody, that's what." And with that Steve sat back in his chair, Dr. Pepper in hand like a bottle of Smithwicks. "_ Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam borei p'ri hagafen. _" Steve blessed their drinks with the traditional Hebrew. You'd never guess he hadn't been to temple in four years if you just ignored his garbage pronunciation.

"Wouldn't it be '_ barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam shehakol niyah bidvaro' _since it's technically candy?" Danny said with a hint of hesitation. Unlike Steve, Danny _always _went to temple.

"Shit, I don't know. Just drink it and revoke my jew card."

Danny laughed so hard he sprayed Dr. Pepper all over Rebecca's Russian-lace tablecloth. Steve knew he shouldn't have, but he felt _very _accomplished.

… … …

Daniel Leonard Senior arrived home around 6:00 pm about 30 minutes after his eldest son. If Steve ever wanted to know what he'd look like in thirty years all he had to do was give his dad a good once over. He and his father stood at about the same height, about 6 feet give or take a few centimeters, and their physiques were comparable as well: Broad shoulders and a wide chest accompanied by rather long legs. And while Steve was much more muscular than his father, he could see that he was once an athletic man. But the years of inactivity and the leisure of family life did him in. Daniel Leonard had grown paunchy of sorts, sporting an ample beer belly in the quintessential 'dad bod.' His once dark hair was now completely grey, save for the stark white patches ghosting around his temples. He had deep frown lines as well, but they seemed to accentuate a relaxed demeanor to his visage rather than sternness. And, probably the aspect of aging Steve dreaded the most, Mr. Leonard was _hairy. _Like Chewbacca-fucked-a-Tibetan-Mastiff-hairy.

Steve recalled a very distant memory: he was maybe four years old, swimming in the creek behind Bubbe Dinah's vacation cottage on a sweltering July evening. His mother watched him play in the clear waters as she sipped on a cold beer. His father joined the waters in nothing but his boxers, much to the humor of his then-wife and the horror of young Steve. At that moment, Daniel Leonard looked less like his father and more like an escaped bigfoot. Thick, dark-brown curls carpeted his father's body. As he entered the water, they transformed into inky-black tendrils reminiscent of a black otter's shiny coat. Steve remembered bolting out of the water to hide behind his mum. He also remembered throwing quite the fit when she settled him across her hip saddle-side to brave the creek with the river beast. Despite the literal decade time difference, Steve's fear of the hairs poking through his father's neckline persisted. He already noticed the change on himself at the young of 17. His treasure trail had not only thickened and darkened over the past year but now connected to his ample chest hair in some hideous imitation of a shag carpet. He contemplated shaving the ordeal occupying his flesh but a healthy fear of manscaping prevented him_._

Daniel kissed his wife as he entered the dining room, taking the brisket dish from her lithe hands and setting it on the center of the table. He gave Danny a quick ruffle to his wavy locks and Steve's shoulder a playful jab before settling down in his seat.

Rebecca set the table not long after with bread, carrot tzimmes, and potato salad. She poured two glasses of merlot for herself and Daniel.

Steve noticed a new tablecloth and Rebecca's pointed stare. He snickered a bit under his breath. _Hope it stains, bitch._

"Thanks, Becca," Daniel said as he sipped from the glass. "Dinner looks amazing, by the way." He punctuated the sentence by bestowing a heaping of brisket to his plate.

The rest of the family followed suit, but Steve did not share his brother's or father's enthusiasm for the meal. Maybe his overall opinion of Rebecca prevented him from appreciating her culinary talents, but his mum could bake and cook this bitch under the table. And his mum would never reheat store-bought bread and serve it as her own. _She _had fucking standards, damn it.

Steve said his blessings along with the rest of the family before digging into a horrendously dry brisket. _How the fuck do you dry out meat that's literally stewed in wine for 5 hours?! _Dinner was quick with small chit-chat here and there about everyone's day, what Danny was studying in school, what his dad was teaching the kids over at Bristol University, what ballets Rebecca wanted to watch, etc.

But then the conversation went in the inevitable direction.

"How'd you get that nasty break, son?" Daniel asked over his second helping of brisket.

Rebecca gave Steve an unsavory glance, eyeing his hand suspiciously at the mention of the injury.

"He broke it against some bloke's face!" Danny chortled through a mouthful of food.

Rebecca shot her husband the _look, _and Danny was soon chastised for his 'inappropriate comment.'

"I mean, yeah," Steve half-lied. "But it was practice_. _Didn't wrap it up properly and broke some knuckles, s'all."

Danny pouted at the answer, and Rebecca took another sip of her wine with a not-so-subtle eye-roll.

"Be more careful next time, safety first an'all that, right?" said his father, to which Steve gave a nod and went back to shoveling dry meat and soggy bread into his mouth.

"But, the other guy's face was completely trashed, right?"

"Daniel Junior!" Rebecca reprimanded in a hushed tone across the table. "This is not polite dinner conversation, and I will not have it at my table."

"Oh, relax a little, Becca. The boy's just curious, nothing to fret over." Daniel tried to temper his wife's ire, but she seethed at the table's head.

"Please, for your poor mum's sake," Rebecca said, "just talk about something else, bubbala."

Ah, and there it was. The dreaded _bubbala. _Danny, ever the mama's boy and softie, folded at his mother's request.

Steve scoffed at the whole exchange. His brother was too _good _for his _own _good.

"Does Darren still breed spiders?" Danny asked in a smaller voice, a forkful of food ready to cover up the words in case it awoke more anger in his mother.

"It's not _really _breeding," Steve quickly added when his father and Rebecca choked on their wine. "He just finds those little house spiders and has them go on 'dates.'" Steve politely omitted the fact that Darren kept a detailed journal of these 'dates' and the offspring conceived therein. He had thumbed through the journal a few times, faking interest (poorly) each time Darren raved over a new brood. Steve shuddered internally at the heavily detailed, heavily graphic pictures his best friend would draw of these… encounters.

"He's still our best forward, scored four goals the other day, two free-kicks and two lobs," Steve added, mainly to spark his father's interest.

"Impressive, impressive," said Daniel Sr. "Still 'Hotshot Shan,' I see?" He laughed at the old nickname with another sip of his wine. "He's applying to Bristol, right? We'd love him on the team."

Rebecca held the stem of her glass with a calculated stillness. She took the last of her glass in a delicate shotgun, and as she poured herself another one slipped this quip across the table: "I didn't know they let _those types _play contact sports."

A glugging of wine was the only audible sound.

But, if you listened exceptionally close, one could hear the blood vessels in Steve's skull implode.

Danny, who stopped mid-bite at the palpable tension, turned to his elder brother with a confused look. "_Those types?" _he mouthed across the table.

Steve considered, only briefly, chucking the fork in his good hand clear through Rebecca's eye socket. "What do you mean… " Steve began in forced calmness. "_Those types?"_

"Fairies," Rebecca deadpanned. "Is it really safe for him to be playing with healthy young men? I mean, nothing against your little friend, but I wouldn't want my little man to get any diseases. All the running and shoving, and not to mention the _showers, _it just doesn't seem safe, does it?"

Danny gave his mother an uncertain look. "What's not safe about it?" he asked.

Steve's nails carved deep, crescent cuts into his palms. He felt the screams bubble up in his throat. Before he could let loose the burning words, Rebecca quipped up again.

"Well, it be like letting a slag into the boys dressing room, don't you think Daniel?" Rebecca said to her husband, who downed the rest of his wine. "I mean, he'd only be a distraction to the other boys, and should anything _happen, _you know boys being boys and all, half the team would catch AIDs or something."

Steve should've bitten his tongue —should've bitten it clean off in his mouth—but no amount of therapy and self-inflicted dismemberment could hold him back.

"That talk from experience, Becca?" Steve said casually.

Daniel Sr. choked on his wine.

Danny's mouth hung agape.

Rebecca nearly broke the very wine glass in her hand.

"Not personal experience, of course, don't want to _insinuate_ anything," added Steve. "But, I mean, callin' my friend a _slag? _Oy vey, you must know 'em very well then. What's that saying again? Takes one to know on—"

With a loud screech, Rebecca pushed her chair away from the dining table and grabbed everyone's empty plates and discarded silverware. She gave her husband a tight-lipped frown before glaring at Steve with what can only be described as pure contempt. Rebecca stomped into the kitchen without a single word.

There was a tense moment of silence in the dining room. The clanging of dishes and running water drowned out what Steve could hear to be faint curses from within the kitchen.

Danny's mouth was still hanging wide open.

Steve's father gave a heavy sigh as he took off his thick-rimmed glasses. He gave the bridge of his nose a two-finger massage before raising from his seat. "Daniel Junior, get upstairs to your room."

"B-but Dad—" Danny began but clammed up at the sight of his father's tight scowl.

"Room. Now."

Danny was up the stairs without another word.

"Stephen," said his father with a defeated voice. "Was that really appropriate? For God sake son she's your step-mum."

"Oi, the fuck you want me to do, huh?!" Steve retorted. "She called Darren a diseased slag, and I didn't see _you _doing anything."

Daniel Sr. gave another huff, fingers taut against his scalp. "It's getting pretty late, huh Steve? I bet your mum's expecting you back anytime now, yeah?"

_Yeah, just roll back and send me out. Fuckin' coward. _Steve rose from his chair without a word. He made quick, long strides to the door. He took a single step out before his father came up behind him.

"Maybe we should put next week's dinner on hold, yeah?" He said. "Just till all this passes over."

Steve did not say the myriad of curses flying through his head. Instead, he gave his father a curt nod before walking down the driveway.

"Get home safe, son. An'tell your mum 'hi' for me an' that I sent the check in the mail." Daniel called out from the doorway of his home.

Steve kept walking.

… … …

Steve never thought he'd be so thankful for an hour-long bus ride. He always took the bus from Bristol to Gloucester Station because it stopped a few blocks away from his flat. Usually, he hated the ride for all its stops and lengthy bouts in traffic, but sitting down and drowning out the downright vile thoughts in his head with _Black Sabbath_ is exactly what he needed. Before the _Master of Reality _album played for the second time, Steve's stop came up.

Summer was pretty much dead in London. September rolled through with the brisk wind and a shit ton of rain. Small, pinprick like drops pelted his head not even three steps off the bus. With his jacket pulled tight over his shoulders, the hood matting down his spiky hair as he tried protecting himself from the soon-to-be-downpour, Steve speed-walked through the rain. By the time he turned the corner on to his street, the 17-year-old was completely soaked. His backpack and gym bag weighed his shoulders down. They grew heavier with each passing second as the rain seeped through the cheap material. Steve's gym bag didn't hold anything of much importance, just sweaty underwear, and his gloves. But his backpack- _completely different story. _Nestled in that secret pocket he carved out Year 9 was an eighth of White Widow, and like Hell he'd let $60 worth of weed go to waste thanks to the fuckin' rain and a cheap bag.

Steve booked it home. He ran another two blocks before coming up the front step of his terrace. He fumbled with the keys, the metal slick in his hands from the rain. With a click, he was in. He quickly took to disrobing his soaked jacket and sweater, leaving an equally soaked tank tap clinging to his broad chest and shoulders. Steve deposited the gym bag on the floor right underneath the coat rack where his wet clothes were tossed unceremoniously. When his clothes immediately fell to the ground, Steve paused.

The Leonard household, despite the outward appearance and the tenants there within, was maintained in a very _particular _fashion. Every day at precisely 5:15 p.m. Sarah Leonard would return home and place her purse and jacket on the hook furthest from the door. Her high heels would sit underneath her coat awaiting for work the following morning. The keys to her Nissan would be placed on the antique half table, gifted by Auntie Margot in 1987, along with half a thermos of now cold tea. Steve, who would return home anytime after 7:00 p.m., always tossed his gym bag underneath the coat hanger, his wallet on the half table, his beat-up Adidas sneakers on the runner, and his jacket on the hook next to his mother's. This was the natural order of things.

However, something alien and utterly inconvenient had usurped the system. Instead of his soaked jacket resting beside his mother's purple winter coat, a black windbreaker with blue lettering took his place. It read 'police' across the left breast pocket.

"What the fuck?" Steve asked himself. He became very aware of the _illegal _substances in his bag, and ever so cautiously hooked it over his shoulder. _Always keep your drugs close by, kids. _Steve peered out the door window.

A police cruiser, which he swore wasn't there a minute ago, sat on the street. It glared through the rain, taunting him.

"How the fuck did I miss that?!" He yelled in a hushed tone. "Did they come to give me a fuckin' piss cup?! That's not part of my parole…"

Soft laughter and chatting could be heard in the back of the house. Steve immediately recognized his mother's high pitched laugh, but the deeper timbre underneath her's was less familiar.

Their voices bounced through the kitchen and living room, growing louder as Steve passed through the entrance hall. He peered past the counter separating the kitchen and living room to see a truly frightening sight.

Officer and his mother were sitting at the dining table. Drinking coffee. Having freshly baked babka. _Laughing up a fucking storm. _They sat across from one another, but they seemed to do everything in their power to close the gap. Leaning over the wooden table, wrinkling the tablecloth in the process, Officer Crawley's chubby face was a mere foot away from Steve's mother. She too leaned in with great interest, resting on her elbows in an attempt to crane her face closer to Crawley's. His mother held a small cup of coffee in her right hand while the other held her face as she practically _died _of laughter. Small droplets of coffee sloshed over the side, but she took little notice. Officer Crawley gesticulated wildly as he recounted a story of chasing down some hoodlum. Sarah Leonard ate up every last word like it was the half-eaten babka on the good china. _Fuck, she broke out the fancy cutlery?!_

"O-oh! Hi Stephen, welcome home!" Mrs. Leonard said with a sputter and no breath. "How was your session, and h-how was your father? And Danny, how's school been for him? Adjusting well, hmm?" She scrambled to set her coffee on the table and nearly knocked over her cup as she rushed to her son's side. While Steve felt it was partially to envelop him in a warm hug, he knew the distance was a weak attempt to cover up all the lovey-dovey vibes percolating through the air. The flush consuming her entire visage and how her fingers fidgeted with a stray lock of hair was evidence enough.

He gave the pair a confused shakedown with his eyes. He settled on his mother. "They're good," Steve said with as even of a tone as he could muster. "Therapy was good, Dad's good, Danny's good. Everything's good…" All lies, but like he'd tell his mum about any of the shit that went down today, not with all this _new shit _unfolding in their kitchen.

Mrs. Leonard nodded as he spoke, "Good, good to hear."

Steve turned his probing stare to Officer Crawley, who avoided all eye-contact as he sipped from his cup. "How you doin' Officer Crawley? Good coffee?" The edge to his voice was unintentional, but very much deserved.

"Excellent coffee." He mumbled with a curt nod. He stood rigid in his spot next to the chair, holding the tiny cup in one hand and the other on his utility belt. "Just stopped by to check on ya, make sure you weren't gettin' into any trouble."

"Uh-huh." Steve walked over to the table, taking a slice of babka without breaking his stare on Officer Crawley. If he wasn't in such a bewildered state of disgust he'd compliment his mother's baking. But more pressing matters took up his attention. Like _why the fuck is his fuckin' parole officer coming on to his fuckin' mum?!_

"I guess mum kept you company while you waited, huh?" Steve took a bite waiting for his rebuttal.

"He popped in right as I finished the babka," his mother cut in, trying to diffuse the very obvious tension in the room. "We talked about how well you were doing over some coffee, and then the rain started and I offered him to stay till it passed over- Oh, Stephen, I'm sorry dear!" She interrupted herself, stepping over to the kitchen drawers and fidgeting through their contents. "You're drenched, Stephen. Here," she shut the drawer when it became apparent no towels would magically produce from its depths, scurrying into the hallway linen closet. "I'll get you something to dry off with, alright dear?" She called.

"Alright, mum," Steve said, not looking in the direction of her voice but straight through Officer Crawley. They stood in silence for what felt like ages, Steve never breaking eye contact from his parole officer.

The middle-aged policemen did everything in his power to avoid the inevitable. He shifted from foot to foot, looked about the tiny kitchen, checked his watch and cell phone, fucking whistled a shanty. But for a brief moment, the officer's eyes shifted and crossed Steve's. The air left the room. A deep wave of rage rolled over Steve. He felt it bubble up through his stomach, accelerate his pulse, and fade his vision. His nails of his good hand dug deep into his palm, blood and rainwater mixing.

Mrs. Leonard returned with the towel, nearly getting caught in the mental crossfire as she sidestepped past her glowering son and the embarrassed officer. "Sorry about that dear, you must be freezing." She dabbed at his wet hair with the towel.

Steve batted away her hands. "I got it, I got it. You don't need to dry me. M'not a kid, mum." He said curtly.

She retracted her hands, balling them atop one another against her breast.

He regretted his words immediately.

She looked hurt like Steve just told her bugger off. In all fairness, that _did _use to be a large part of his interactions with his mother, but he was trying very hard to _not _give off that feeling of arseholery.

Steve took a breath, relaxing his grip on the fabric in his hands. "Thanks for the towel, mum." His voice was much softer this time, metered by deliberate care and calmness. He gave a small smile and she seemed touched by the sentiment.

Officer Crawley placed the coffee cup down on the table, shuffling out of the dining room without spiking the awkward tension in the room. "I should be heading out now, I feel like I've overstayed my welcome a bit." He said with a rough chuckle.

"Oh no, George," Mrs. Leonard was already shoveling a hefty piece of babka into some Tupperware for the officer. "Come around whenever, we love having you over." Once again, the red tint covered his mother's face and Steve felt his insides give an organ-altering twist.

Officer Crawley took the baked sweet bread with a grand smile. "Thank you, Sarah, your baking makes it hard to stay in shape." He gave his rotund stomach a good pat for added measure.

Sarah gave a hearty laugh, following the officer to the front door where he slipped his jacket back on and wrangled his keys from the breast pocket. He opened the front door and bid a last goodbye to Mrs. Leonard with a rather friendly hug. _Too fuckin' friendly._

Officer Crawley took notice of Steve's gaze. He straightened up in a futile attempt to retain a shred of authority in the situation. "Glad to see yer doin' well, lad. Keep up the good work. Stay outta trouble, keep with it n'school, be nice to yer mum."

Steve gave a curt nod and a monotoned "Yes sir."

"An' pick up after yourself," Officer Crawley gestured to the soaked jacket laying on the floor beneath the coat rack. "Ya won't always have your lovely mum here to do it for ya." And after making his mother blush like a damn school girl for the umpteenth time in the past hour, Officer Crawley finally left.

Steve hung his jacket on the hook, _where it belonged, _and hooked his gym bag over his shoulder and his backpack over the other. Steve could rest a little easier knowing both his weed and mother were safe for the night from sad, lonely police officers.

"I'm heading up," Steve said as he passed by his mother. "Had dinner at Dad's, so I'm just going to study before heading to bed." He very much did not want to speak about what just transpired in the kitchen and, hopefully, if he ignored these new developments he could sleep without nightmares.

"O-oh, alright." his mother said. "Do you and your lil' friend want any snacks while you study? Maybe some tea or babka?" she called, leaving Steve rather transfixed halfway up the stairs.

"What friend?" he asked, looking from his shut bedroom door back down to her. Steve didn't have_ friends. _He had Darren, who was like a brother to him, Danny, his actual brother, and on occasion Tommy Jones and Alan Morris, who were tolerated at best.

"The young lady you're helping with math. Julia? I think she said her name was Julia…" Ms. Leonard said the name to herself a few times, but Steve knew _exactly who_ was in his room. _On his bed._

"Julia Evergreen," he said with a sweet tone of remembrance, one he hoped his mother didn't pick up on. "Yeah, yeah. I told her I'd help her with some stuff on the review for a test we have in like a week." Steve called down to his mom as he trotted up the stairs. A noticeable pep accompanied his steps. "And don't worry about snacks or anything, I'll just explain some things to her then see her out." He didn't even wait to hear his mother's response before rushing through his bedroom door and locking it behind him. No need to bother his mum with looking after them when they had so much to get done. After all, he had some rather _hard _concepts to help sweet Julia with.

… … …

Julia Evergreen, newly 16, laid herself out on Steve's pitiful mattress. Her lips, plush and pillowy, quirked in amusement as she flipped through his copy of Camlet. She was a walking wet dream. A full mouth that rested in a pout, soft cheeks edged out by a dusting of freckles, a head of loose curls, thick thighs crunched by an insanely tight pair of shorts, and huge_ tits._ Her feet rested on the wall, her hands preoccupied with the pages.

"So," Steve drawled out low in his throat, "you break into my house by lying to my sweet mum," he slinked onto the bed as he spoke, tossing his bag to the side, "then you have the nerve to go snooping through my shit," he bared his frame over her body, extending his arm over her ample chest as he caged her between his pelvis and thick arm, "and, to top it all off," he plucked the book straight from her hands, "you lost my page."

"Rude," Julia stated, rolling out of Steve's grasp with a flip of her brunette locks. "And it's not my fault your mum's so trusting, and you leave your weird vampy crap layin' round."

Steve rolled his eyes at her ignorance, quickly finding his page once more before dog-earring and placing it back on his desk. Turning his attention back to the lithe girl, he saw a jumper slip over her pale, freckled shoulders. Her fingers made quick work of her bra soon after.

"The fuck happened to your hand?" asked Julia "Wank off too hard?"

Steve ignored her questions and her voice in general, but let his eyes wander the smooth expanse of her tits."What're you doin' there, Jules?" Steve grinned.

"What's it look like, _Leopard?" _That old nickname, when hot of the lips of a busty slut, just did things to Steve. With a flick of the wrist, her bra was tossed across the room.

Steve was not a weak man. But Julia had _great fucking tits. _She looked amazing in anything with them pushed up, bouncing, and on full display. But topless—Julia neared porn-star levels of tit-perfection. They were heavy, pillowy, _huge, _and waiting for him. What does any healthy teenager do in this situation?

Dive right in, that's fucking what. In an instant, Steve pressed her lithe body into the mattress with his weight. He wrapped his arms around her hips, burying his fingers deep into her thighs and ass. The pair rolled on the bed. Steve landed on his back beneath Julia, her soft, ample tits resting heavy on his pecs. He wasn't complaining.

Her fingers worked at the hem of his shirt and yanked the fabric over his head. "Oh!" Julia giggled, her hand caressing the strained tent in Steve's jeans."Someone's a little pent up~"

Steve began shucking off his pants in a flurry with his one good hand.

Julia did the same with her skinny jeans. Her mouth worked up the length of Steve's neck with sloppy, desperate kisses as her hand stroked up his still-clothed cock.

Steve took a handful of her left tit, loving the soft yet firm flesh spilling out between his fingers. His thumb rolled her nipple in delicious circles.

Julia mewled into his chest, her chestnut hair rubbing against his chin as she worked her hand over his dick.

Steve doesn't know how it happened, but it did. Even with his hand massaging her ample, porn-worthy tits and her breathy moans flooding his ears, Steve saw a flash.

_Dark brown hair clouded his vision, only for piercing green eyes to pin him down to the bed. A hearty, Irish-tenor filled his head with filthy pants and groans. Rough hands worked his cock with fine expertise and care, sending his hair on edge and a name nearly spilling over his lips._

"Da-damn…" Steve stuttered, catching himself as the very _female _body working him into a heady pleasure brought him back. "Think we could speed this up, Jules?"

Julia raised her head from his chest and mouthed a single word: 'Greedy.' Her hand dove into Steve's boxers. Warm, delicate fingers pumped his shaft.

The skin on skin contact was exactly what he needed to dash the unwelcome thoughts. Everything melted away from Steve at that moment. All the blood rushed from his head straight to his cock, and he didn't have the fucking mental capacity to waste on Rebecca, his dad, his therapist, _fucking _Eric, or -

"Darren," Julia breathed out into Steve's ear "almost ruined this for us, you know?"

Steve's hands froze their venture on Julia's body, along with his breath.

"Good thing I told him to give us some privacy, huh?" Julia giggled. She crawled down his body and pulled his cock free from his boxers. The shaft sprung forth, heavy and needy on Steve's stomach. With her hair grasped in a single fist and Steve's dick in the other, Julia was ready to swallow him down her willing throat.

Steve pulled himself up from her grasp, leaving Julia confused and her mouth cockless. "What the fuck are you talking about?" Steve asked. "Did Darren come by?"

"Well, yeah," Julia said, "when is he _not _by?" Julia punctuated her intent with a quirked brow. "I saw him on the way here and we just chatted for a little bit. Apparently, him and his new beau got into it. Boyfriends—relationships, really—so much trouble, yeah?

Steve's erection died in Julia's hand.

She pumped him slowly, trying to get back up to half mass. "Oh, Steve, we don't have to worry about that, let's just get back to it, okay?"

"No," Steve grimaced. "I gotta talk to him about this." He rolled off the bed as fast as he could and started shimming his pants back on.

"What?! Are you seriously leaving right now?"

"Eric's a fuckin' bastard, and Darren's fuckin' head over heels for him, so if he's upset enough to want to talk to me in person then it's _fucking bad, Jules."_

"Jesus, calm down," Julia said. "You're upset over nothing! Darren's a big girl, he doesn't need you running to save him all the time."

"Don't fucking say shit like that," Steve warned. He was already fully dressed and ready to stomp Eric's head in. He gripped his cell-phone like a pistol.

"What?! Oh my God, are you really getting onto me for turning Darren away so we could fuck?"

"What if something went down between him an' Eric, huh? I need to be there for him for that type of shit." Thoughts of all the horrible things Eric could've possibly done ran through his head like a freight train. He couldn't stop it. No matter how much he tried, therapy techniques and all, Steve couldn't stop his hand from clenching around his Nokia as if it were Eric's bloody neck. And Julia's commentary was not helping.

"Darren's fine! They'll have a fag-shag and makeup, it's-"

"I'm serious, Jules. Cut that shit out."

"Oh save it, Leonard," she seethed out his last name. She got off the bed and pulled her jeans back on. Julia began searching for her bra and shirt as she tossed Steve a dirty glare. "Everyone fuckin' knows about it, and it's not a big fuckin' deal if Darren Shan's a faggot getting fucked up the ass—"

A shotgun of sound rang through the house.

In an instant Julia ducked to the ground, her shirt and bra clutched close to her chest. Steve's phone laid embedded in the wall. Flecks of paint and drywall peppered Julia's hair, the dent right where her head would've been.

"Get the fuck out."

… … …

Ms. Leonard, no doubt flying up the stairs to check on the commotion, was nearly thrown over the railing as Julia sobbed her way down. With her t-shirt still in hand and her bra barely hooked on, Julia rocketed out the front door.

From the outside, Steve heard her shrill voice scream a million obscenities. But the one that cut deepest was how she screamed the word monster over and over again. Steve steadied his mother on the landing but spared no time to explain.

Sarah was bewildered. She followed him down to the front door, out into the front yard, and even to the street. "Steve!" She cried into the night air. "Stephen! Talk to me! Please, just talk to me!" Her voice sounded hoarse, and Steve knew the tears already ripped through her lungs.

"I gotta check on Darren, mum!" He called back, not even looking behind him. "I gotta make sure he's okay…" His words hung in the air. And even as his mother called after him, Steve only heard the expanse of night stretch over him.

… … …

With his indestructible Nokia in hand (along with a considerable amount of drywall) Steve called Darren only a few streets away from the Shan residence.

Darren picked up on the first ring.

"Steve?" Darren's voice was wrecked_. _He'd been sobbing, not crying, but _sobbing _and Steve almost couldn't take it.

Steve felt his heart clench in his chest like his ribs would cave in and kill him right then and there. "Hey, I'm sorry about Julia," Steve said. "I didn't know she'd be there today, and I'm heading over to your place right now."

Darren gave a long sigh over the phone.

Steve hoped it was one of relief. "What happened with Eric? Do I need to slash his tires or somthin'?" Steve said it as a joke but was quite serious.

Darren gave a small chuckle to his words, that wonderful, light laugh that rang through Steve's body like the Golden Bells. Steve could feel the little head shake of disapproval from Darren's end of the line, knowing full well that Darren didn't understand how serious he truly was.

"No, no Steve," Darren said, laughing. But his voice still carried a sad weight and a defeated tone. "But getting sloshed sounds great right now."

"Oi, I'm your guy," Steve said. "But what happened, Dare? What'd that fucker do?"

A moment of silence lapsed over the line.

Then, in a small, broken voice, Darren spoke.

"He got us tickets to _that _circus."

The sidewalk swallowed Steve whole.


	4. Under and Out

Steve's mad-dash to Darren's destroyed every bit of sense he had. The wind was merciless, beating his face raw with each blistering punch. But his body had kicked into overdrive. Doped up on adrenaline, fear, and a brimming rage, he ran the two miles in 17 minutes flat. Cold, near-freezing sweat collected on Steve's upper and lower back. It stuck to his shirt and flesh in a tacky film. The moisture froze to his skin, a chill that clung to his body that he just couldn't shake. And when he finally ran up the street to Darren's house, the chill froze his heart mid-beat.

Darren had fallen into utter Hell. His hands shook in the yellow, near-clinical light of the street lamps. His dark hair was ruined from his own hands wracking over his scalp. The strands whipped about in the chilling breeze. Blown wide like the night were his green eyes. His irises had gone tight, mere pin-pricks at the center of a frozen vortex. Violent, anxiety-fueled shakes overtook his body. He paced back and forth in the driveway of his family home, mumbling to himself the very same things he whispered during the rare night terror: A cloaked figure just at the edge of sight, tiny people with pallid, stitched faces, the breathless shrieks gasping for reprieve. Steve witnessed each mumbled nightmare take another chunk of Darren's sanity. Night swarmed around his body, the yellow light a fuzzy haze illuminating the descent. Darren was spiraling down.

Three blunts were rolled and waiting for Darren in Steve's backpack. The night air was brisk, far too brisk for a London September. Steve was certain, however, that his friend's shakes were due to much different 'circumstances.' He knew this because Darren rarely, if ever, got the chills. Maybe it was those Northern Irish genes that wrapped his body in perpetual heat to stave off unforgivingly damp winters. Or maybe it was years of football practice in the rainy seasons when raindrops froze on the skin. Steve had no evidence for his theories until a rough match at the end of year 12. Hot-Shot Shan scored six goals last season during a literal hail storm. His body was beaten to hell and back. Dime-sized welts peppered his skin with grass stains and cleat sized bruises. His shins bless the kid, got annihilated by the opposing team's sweeper, Connor Dwight. Dwight, an upperclassman from a rival school and a royal prat, guarded Darren the entire time. Every shot Darren took was hard fought. He'd fake left, then swing the football to the right with a clean sidekick. But Dwight, much larger than Darren and definitely more fit for rugby, would slam the ball right back into the brunet's shins. Along with his monstrous cleats and knees, of course. Not even a tremor passed over Darren that entire day. He took every kick, every shoulder-check, every blistering gust of wind and ice with unshakable determination. And, maybe, a little bit of grace (however much grace a sweaty, Irish teen can have on a football field, that is).

Steve wasn't invited to that game. Jones specifically told him not to come. After their falling out, Tommy Jones and the rest of the team were convinced that a visit from the resident Hellraiser would throw their golden boy off his game. So, Steve didn't show up. But if Darren or Jones heard a string of Yiddish swears pass the sidelines, that was a total coincidence. If they saw a muddy, sopping wet snapback get hurled over the bleachers and reveal a shock of blond hair, total coincidence. And if Dwight's tires, all four of them, happened to get slashed after the game, then that was a happy coincidence. Despite Steve 'not' showing up, Dwight being a sack of shit, and the bruising rain pelting his skin, Darren didn't falter. He was a damn good forward, a good sport through and through, and a dedicated team player. Nothing could trip up Hot-Shot Shan. Well, nothing besides a broad-shouldered, ginger-haired, perverted arsehole named 'Eric.'

Steve kept a rolling backlog of all the fucked-up shit he'd do to Eric's face with a car door. If the bloke stayed around, Steve would have tested the durability of the human skull between a car door and the jamb… 'There's always next time,' Steve thought to himself. That ginger-haired piece of shit and his Honda civic were long gone. Lucky for Eric.

Darren led Steve straight through the front door, past the front hall, and up the stairs. They didn't even stop to greet the Shans, a ritual Steve practiced every time he dropped by. Dermot and Angela Shan would steal him away for a good five minutes to an hour, asking all about his Uni plans, his rugby season, his mom's casserole dishes that he never took back, if he'd found a nice, 'proper' lady yet (that's Mrs. Shan's polite way of saying not a slag), and anything else you could possibly ask a teenage boy who had no idea where his life was going.

The Shan's tried greeting the boys, but Darren dragged Steve along the landing by his jacket cuff. When he idled at the banisters (fanboying with Mr. Shan over the upcoming Castillo vs. Corrales match) the brunet took Steve's busted hand into his own.

Steve couldn't pull away fast enough. He blanched at the contact. His hand recoiled and the fingers ached just below the gauze. His heart, ricocheting from rib to rib, beat the air out of his lungs in a terrified groan. It didn't hurt. Far from pain, the brief contact rang through Steve's body in a high thrum. And that was horrifying.

Darren's already fragile state nearly shattered across his face.

"Sorry, Dare," Steve raised up his bandaged hand quickly "still hurts a bit, don't freak out, mate." His other hand clapped Darren's back a few good times before resting. It stayed atop his shoulder, rubbing small circles, and soothing the muscle, till they slipped past Darren's bedroom door.

Darren relaxed at the reassuring touches but said nothing. In fact, the brunet didn't utter a single word until they were tucked into his room. Before Steve could even put his backpack down, Darren was already fishing around for weed. He pulled a single blunt out, gave a hearty albeit shaky sigh, then asked: "Gotta light?"

Steve suppressed the urge to snicker. Darren wasn't a junkie or a pot-head by any means, but when the kid needed his fix, he needed his fix. And after the night he had with Eric, Steve couldn't blame him. "You know it, Dare," Steve said and flipped out Feter Hiram's last lighter. He didn't smoke, but he kept the lighter around for safekeeping of sorts. When he was nine, Steve would stare at the naked broad painted onto the sides. Said broad, or 'Carmilla' as Steve called her in his early jerk-off years, straddled an old-school sniper rifle like she was riding one of those motorized bulls at American rodeos. She wore nothing, only an ammunition belt that hugged her full hips. Bleach-blonde waves rolled over her bare breasts and perky nipples, providing only a veil of modesty. And her cherry-red dick-sucking lips parted just enough for Steve's puberty-addled mind to run absolutely wild.

Darren snatched the lighter without even a glance at the beautiful Carmilla. Fire consumed the tip of the blunt and that sweet, pine-like aroma blazed up the room. He breathed in deep from his core.

Steve watched his friend's lungs expand, stomach muscles roll with the breath, and body melt with the smoke melding into the atmosphere. And with that first puff off the joint, Darren flopped down onto his bed. He bounced up with the force, but down and out in another world when he came back. He saw Darren's tremors peter out. The violent shakes, ones so unmanageable it's a wonder how Darren lit the damn thing, turned to a gentle flutter. His hand flowed to a natural rhythm, a kind of beat that one could only know faded out of reality. For the first time that night, Darren smiled.

Steve locked Darren's bedroom door in a pitiful bid to keep the smell of burning marijuana contained. The Shans were pretty cool and 'hip' with their kids, but Steve didn't want to take any chances. Especially when he planned on riding that high with Darren. He laid next to the brunet, falling heavily into a groove carved out after years of sleep-overs. Steve loved Darren's room simply because it wasn't his own. The bed was a bed with a box spring and a frame and sheets that matched the comforter. Sure, Steve had grown to love his mattress on the floor and call it his own, but Darren's bed just felt right. It was large enough for the teens to lounge around and read comics together. The wood frame even matched the secretary desk resting directly at the foot. Darren's desk, unlike Steve's, was littered with numerous books and crumpled up bits of paper. Teacups, half-full and bone dry, were pushed to the sides to make way for whatever project Darren cooked up that week. Sitting in the center of his desk on proud display was an open sketchbook. The image was half-complete with only parts of the sketched spider's legs inked in. Steve didn't recognize the spider. But that's more to say that all spiders (and insects for that matter) look the same to Steve's untrained eye.

Steve watched the blunt fall past those plush lips for a second time and marveled at the calmness rolling over his friend. The white widow was a mellow kind of high. It didn't leave you feeling strung out or wired, but a strange kind of calm; hazy and yet clear all at once.

Darren held the high tight in his chest and mouth for a few serene seconds. But sputtering coughs erupted from those taut lips. He sat up, trying to clear his lungs with wave after wave of hacking coughs. Smoke leaked over the dark room in staggered clouds. The smell soaked into the sheets beneath Steve's back and Darren's arse, drenched the air, and left Steve's lungs coated in the residual.

Rumbling laughs flowed in sync with Darren's coughs. Steve held out the thumb and pointer finger of his good hand, ready for the blunt.

Darren passed it to Steve once the smoke cleared from his lungs. The brunet fell back on his mattress right beside the blond.

Steve took the hit with no issue. He sucked in, held the high, exhaled through his nose. Pro Fuckin' Technique. "Pretty pathetic, Shan" Steve teased.

"Shut it, mate," Darren quipped, voice tight and raspy from the smoke. "We're not all stoners, ya'know," he said with a few poignant coughs.

"M'not a stoner, Dare," a giggle ran through his words on a raising high. "I just know how to relax." The weed had been in his bag for quite a while, so its potency had worn off considerably. But there was still a weightlessness to his body. He wasn't even on Darren's bed anymore. He was levitating, floating in the space between the bed and air. He looked over to Darren rocketing through the high.

Despite how terribly Darren took the second hit, his eyes were blown. Blackness stretched over the expanses of the iris. The dark emerald pools were reduced to thin, shining rings around twin voids.

Steve couldn't help but think of a solar eclipse and how the light crested in full past the darkness. Or like in Paradise Lost when Satan was cast down from Heaven, yet his form still held a divine light. He was a void, a force of pure darkness. But the light of God still clung to Satan in outstretched rays. Darren's eyes felt the same. No matter how dark the room was, or how blown and vast his pupils seemed, the light shined through.

"Steve," Darren whispered. "You're staring…" He breathed out in a muffled giggle and Steve felt his body vibrate with the impact of each flutter in those lungs. Darren, apparently, had hit his peak despite it all.

'Your eyes are so pretty' he saw the words snake out of his lips towards Darren's ears. They twirled in the air, a mix of smoke tendrils and deep-seated panic. He took another drag off the blunt, sucking the words straight back into his lungs. "Yeah," Steve tried to hold some composure when reality started to unfurl again "cause you're fuckin' staring, mate. See something ya like?"

Those beautiful eyes, wide and luminous in the moonlit room, stared back. "Yeah…" Darren said, his lips parted just enough to breathe out the response to the air. He curled into Steve's built frame, inching his lean body closer and lining his eyes up to Steve's pale blue irises.

Steve held his breath. He floated in the gaze of those emerald eclipses for what felt like too short an eternity.

In one gentle motion, Darren rested his head atop Steve's chest. He curled up into the side of Steve's pec, his cheek resting on his friend's heart and his other arm around Steve's abs. "You still make a great pillow," Darren said, "like when we were kids."

Steve expected his body to go rigid, for his limbs to seize up like they did on the walk home nearly a week ago. Or for his body to recoil, to spark a strange current through his nerves like when Darren reached for his hand less than an hour ago. But Steve relaxed into the touch. He welcomed the closeness, the warmth, the soft yet firm muscles of Darren's arms across his chest. He wrapped an arm around Darren's middle, bringing the brunet closer like it was normal. He melted into Darren, their heat just another layer to the haze of Steve's high.

"Oh," Darren giggled in what Steve could only guess was surprise. He nuzzled his face deeper into Steve's strong chest, and Steve swore he felt his heart skip. "I thought you'd wimp out or freak or something."

Steve chalked it up to the weed. It had to be the weed making this all feel so right and calm and perfect. "Yeah, well," Steve averted his gaze, "if Eric's bein' a prick, then I'm the best ya got, yeah?"

"Isn't that sad," Darren quipped.

"Oi!" Steve sucked in another puff. He wasn't high enough for Darren's sass. "You can't use me as a pillow and insult me. Pick one."

Darren grumbled but settled his body against Steve's in reply. He slid his leg over Steve's thighs and made that his permanent residency. Steve ignored the little twitch in his own cock. His dick can't tell the gender of a thick thigh spread across his body. It's warm and soft and there. Can't blame a poor, confused, blue-balled dick. "So," Steve settled into their new position and ignored the discomfort spreading over his crotch, "wanna tell me what's up?"

Darren didn't speak for a moment. Steve felt the little gears in Darren's head turning, searching for the right things to say with that novelist brain of his. "I…" He tapered off again, the words crumbling in his mouth. "I just think you'll be grossed out by it."

That hurt more than it should. Steve still hadn't told Darren how he really broke his hand. Just thinking about it made his bandages itch and his knuckles burn. If he could keep secrets from Darren, shouldn't Darren be able to do the same? Somehow that sound logic just made it all hurt so much more. "... Am I really that bad?"

"No, I just… I miss how we use to be."

"I try, Dare, I really do. Shit," Steve felt himself collapsing. Even the weed couldn't stop his emotions from spiraling. He knew no matter how hard he tried; he couldn't fix this. He fucked up Darren's trust for life. And that fucking Eric, that Odoacer-ian thorn in Steve's side. Like the barbarian who usurped Romulus, Eric annexed Darren from Steve's life. "I wanna hang out with you and I try to plan shit but you're out with fuckin' Eric half the damn time" Steve sucked down the last of the blunt. He reduced it down to nothing, trying to knock the high back into his blood.

As the smoke went up and over the room, Darren huffed "Seriously? I got, like, one puff, mate."

"Two," Steve corrected, "and you coughed up a lung, Shan," Steve said, the smoke high and tight in his throat before easing it out in long waves through his nose.

Darren gave a little chuckle, the high airy kind you get when smoking. But the chuckles died down, and his cheek rolled over Steve's pec. "Do I really ditch you that much?" Darren's breath ghosted over Steve's shirt.

He felt the heat sink to his heart. "It feels that way."

"I'm sorry, Steve," Darren's voice, muffled by Steve's broad chest, curled around and mixed with the smoky haze. The fluttering lips against his shirt struck Steve's heart again. That Irish timbre fused into the air and filled up Steve's lungs with the hanging smoke.

"Me too," Steve hugged Darren tighter, breathing in the scent of his hair. "We can both be bloody pricks, yeah?"

"You more than me," Darren teased "but yeah, we can." Darren plucked another blunt from Steve's pocket and lit it up for them both. He smoked it successfully this time with minimal coughing.

"If I'm an arsehole, you can just deck me again," Steve watched the smoke flutter from Darren's plush lips in soft laughter. The blond couldn't help the stupid, giddy smile that stretched across his face.

Darren took another hit and held it. He rested his hand atop Steve's built pec, the blunt perched between his knuckles and let out a plume of smoke. "Remember when he took me to that movie like a week ago?"

"Yeah, maybe," Steve pretended to forget the entire incident. But the anger began worming back into his brain. The Elle Macpherson poster stared at him in his mind's eye. He saw her beautiful face turn inside out and melt down the side of his bedroom wall. Fresh, searing pain bloomed across his broken hand at the memories. "W-what did you watch, anyway?" Her melted face sloshed down her bikini top, covering her ample tits in a fleshy recreation of Salvador Dali. The white widow was biting back.

"Boy Eats Girl," Darren said, voice raspy yet so blissed out.

"You ditched me to snog to that fuckin' shit?"

"Would it make you feel better if I said it was bloody terrible?"

"Extremely."

"God, Steve, I'd rather suck off a chainsaw then watch that again."

Steve gave a hearty laugh. 'Good,' he thought. 'Serves you right for ditching me.' Aloud, he asked: "Eric's idea?"

Darren nodded with a knowing look.

"Shoulda fuckin' guessed." Steve took the blunt from Darren's fingers, ready to bite the widow back. He noticed the pinkish-red tinge to Darren's eyes and begged for that kind of high. Fuck, Darren was in deep. "What he think?"

"He snogged me half the time, so I don't think he cared much."

"That's what I woulda fuckin' done," Steve said with a quick toke.

With a mischievous grin, Darren raised his brows and asked, quite smug, "Really?"

Steve quirked a brow. Then his cheeks went vermillion and he tried to choke the smoked words back. "Not to say I'd do that to you, snog you or cop a feel or anythin' like that, but-"

"Who said he copped a feel?" Darren prodded at Steve's chest and rolled his leg up higher on his friend's torso. He sneaked those dexterous fingers to Steve's lips and snatched the blunt. He sucked in, almost to the blunt's death, before giggling out "Why'd you think he copped a feel, huh?" he emphasized the notion by worming himself closer to the blond. His cock and bollocks now rested squarely on Steve's hip.

Alright, now he knew Darren hit his ceiling. The brunet cackled like crazy watching Steve jerk around and re-adjust himself for minimal cock-on-hip, cock-on-thigh contact. He nearly lost the nubby blunt in his euphoria, but Steve was quick to apprehend the piece before the bed burnt down.

"Oy vey, you know what I mean, fercockt, mate!"

Darren gave a hearty laugh, and Steve felt himself shrink into the joint. Darren's high seemed to keep climbing, but Steve was on a perpetual rollercoaster trying to keep his brain, dick, and anger in check. Steve took hit after hit to curb his embarrassment.

"It's a cheesy horror movie, it's supposed to be terrible, right?" Darren said, "but after the movie, Eric tells me about this Circus his Uni buddies tipped him off too. I tell him I can't do any kind of circus after Cirque du Freak and he drops it. I told him all about it when we first got together, so it would've been great if he just left it at that."

"But, he didn't."

"He didn't, and the next day he asks me about it again. And then he brings up all these stupid questions," Darren pitched his voice an octave deeper, puffing out his chest to match Eric's fake bravado, "like 'What would you do if Cirque du Freak came to London' and 'Would you wanna see Madame Octa again?' And, get this, he said and I-fucking-quote 'Bet Steve would love to see Mr. Crepsley again.'"

Steve nearly choked on the blunt. "Why the fuck," he began in staggered coughs "does that prick wanna know that shit?"

"He kept saying how cool it be for all of us to hang out. He knows you hate'em," Darren said in a pointed tone "and he thinks this is the best way to win you over. Butter you up with a blast for your angsty, vampire-wanking past."

"Wanking?!"

Darren, picking the blunt from Steve's fingers, gave a curt nod. "You had a fetish, mate."

"Fetish?" Steve gaped. "Big tittied broads with perpetual bedroom eyes, bang-able till their centuries old, and built to suck liquids outta a man? That's not a fetish mate, that's called being a bloke. And who didn't wanna motorboat Elvira? I'd let her suck the blood straight outta my hard cock, Shan."

"How does that not sound like a fetish to you?" Darren simultaneously laughed and cringed at the image. "Come on, remember when I found that Femme Fatales magazine hidden in one of your spawn comics?"

"No, no idea." Oh, but Steve remembered. That magazine supplied the primo fantasies for his early spank bank. Cassandra Peterson, better known as Elvira, laid sprawled out over the cover. Her body was barely contained by a black, see-through mesh top that clung to her ivory skin. Her dark hair covered the most sensitive parts of her breast, but Steve could still make out the mold of her nipples underneath. Oh, the things his horny teenage mind did to poor Cassandra Peterson late into the nights and early into the mornings. The magazine cover got the lion's share of pre-teen sporadic cum shots.

"Bloody liar! You gave Elvira a crusty facial and tried to pass them off as dried 'mayonnaise' stains" Darren sniggered.

"You told him about that?" Steve asked, the weed mellowing out his ire to mere annoyance. But an annoyed Steve was still a mildly dangerous animal. Even now with the brunet curled around his arm and his senses dulled by drugs (and his cock at half-mast), Steve's grip tightened, and he felt that tell-tale ache in his temple.

Darren shook his head 'no,' trying to hold back laughter. "I told him everything about the cirque and about you, but not that." A haze hung over the friends. Steve wondered how Darren kept smoking when there was barely any blunt left to smoke. "We talk a lot about you."

Before Steve could lash out, like a sixth sense Darren calmed him down with that gentle gaze. How the fuck could those eyes just bring him back down? Maybe his lips and eyes were magic; they could just conjure weed and tranquility out of literal shit.

"Nothing bad or anythin'," Darren said. "I wasn't talking behind your back or making fun of you, you know I could never do that. Just the regular stuff. He tells me about his friends, I tell him about mine, the usual new-boyfriend shit. And you're my best friend, Steve. I want Eric to like you and you to like him if he sticks around, you know?"

Steve felt the rage deflate in his heart at the mention of 'if.' If Eric stays around; if Darren wants to keep seeing him; if this whole Cirque du Freak fiasco didn't ruin everything. Steve silently wished to himself that it did. That would make his life so much easier if Eric was just gone. Darren could rightfully dump him for the being the insensitive, pervert fuck that he is and go back to hanging out with Steve again. And though that might sound a little selfish, Eric was obviously bad for Darren. Boyfriends shouldn't give you so much stress and heartache that you go running off to your best friend trying to scratch a weed fix, right? They should be there for you. In a lot of ways, they should be like a best friend. Case in point: Darren was currently cuddled up with Steve, not that ginger fuck-faced piece of shit. Best Friend: 1, Shitty Boyfriend: 0.

"Then, flash forward to tonight, he says he has a surprise for me. I think I'm getting a hand-job," Darren ignored Steve's choked noises "but instead he shows me four tickets."

"Back up," Steve said. "Why'd you think you'd get a handy?"

Darren's face turned a pale pink and Steve could only make out the phrase "owed me" under Darren's grumbled breaths.

Steve was silent for a moment. But then the laughter started inkling out from his mouth. He tried to hold it back, but the image was just too good. He knew Eric was a selfish prick. Apparently, he was one in bed too, and that just left Steve in stitches.

"Oh, shove it mate."

"Come on, Dare," Steve gasped between laughs. "That's just poor form. A guy should always take care of a lady, s'just polite."

"Well, good thing I'm not a lady."

"Fuck, I don't mean it like that," Steve said and, within that instance, he was reminded of Julia's underhanded bullshit. His cock twitched at the memory of her nimble hands and her silky, vile throat. "I mean you should just, you know, take care of your partner. Remember what I did to that Elvira at Rumi's Halloween party? She went down on me, so I did a few body shots outta her sweet cunt, then she let me do anal!"

"God, you are an animal," Darren had no more blunt left to smoke, so he tucked into Steve's firm bicep. "And you sent her to the ER!"

"Okay, in all fairness, how was I supposed to know she was allergic to coconut?!"

"You know, great question Steve," Darren said. "How could you've known? I mean, talking to her seems reasonable, but I guess your mouth was busy, huh?"

"God, weed makes you bitchy, Shan." Steve would've asked about their lube choices, but who the fuck has time to talk about that when a busty broad in a low-cut dress bends over a kitchen counter for you? Steve didn't remember much from Halloween, circa 2004, aside from the boner-popping, drop-dead gorgeous Elvira who was down for bloody anything and everything. She got his reference to Lost Boys and his David Powers costume. He couldn't commit to the mullet, but she dug his stubble and natural platinum hair. She ran a finger over his chin, putting on her best 'dark-seductress voice' and Steve felt his cock strain at the sight of her glinting 'fangs.' She was a good, Catholic girl— in fact, she may have gone to Darren's Sunday school— so she didn't believe in sex before marriage. Vaginal sex, that is. Instead, she hiked up that black skin-tight dress so Steve could plow her ass on the kitchen counter. It doesn't count if it's in the butt, Jesus said so assured the busty brunette before screaming for dear life when Steve piston his cock into her tight ass. Her sweet, breathy moans turned to pure screams soon after. When Steve looked down to check the damage, thinking that she might've torn from the rough treatment, he was greeted with bright red welts splattered over her rim and inner cheeks. After downing more than the recommended dosage of cunt shots, he vomited at the sight. Then promptly passed out on top of Elvira. He awoke later in the night (well, early morning) to Darren's recounting of the events to a few medics hauling the girl out of the kitchen.

The pair fell silent after swapping a few more memories of crashed parties, weekend-long benders, and that time Alan Morris almost got head from a prostitute behind McDonald's. Steve thought it was a lovely birthday gift, but a solid punch to the shoulder from Darren and Alan making a dead sprint back home proved him wrong.

Darren gave a heavy sigh. He curled into Steve, resting his head between the blond's strong arm and chest. "I really don't want to go, Steve."

"Then don't," Steve flicked out their last blunt and lit it. He let the smoke collect and add to the perpetual fog hanging in the room. The moonlight danced off the haze, illuminating the air draped so close overhead. It was like they were deep in the clouds, hidden away from everything in the world.

"But I can't just be afraid of a fucking circus forever…"

"Why not?" 'We're in the sky,' Steve thought, 'no circus in the sky."

"I don't want to be afraid anymore. I wanna move on and be happy and not freak out every time I think about that circus. I can't just get high with you and cry on your shoulder for the rest of my life."

"Sure, you can," Steve said softly. Why couldn't he? Steve loved how they were right now in this very moment, tucked away from the world with a few blunts and great memories.

Darren fell silent. He slacked into Steve's warm body, looking absolutely defeated.

Steve figured his high was crashing, so he offered the blunt to his friend. When Darren refused, Steve felt lost. When the brunet turned over, removing himself from Steve's warmth and moving closer to the edge of the bed, away from Steve, the blond's heart nearly gave out. He smashed the blunt, now nearly burned out from non-use, into his jean pocket. The flame died there.

"I'll go with you," the words just fell from his mouth. Darren turned back around, and Steve didn't care anymore. "You said he got four tickets, yeah?"

"But you don't—" Darren was cut off by an arm wrapping around his waist and pulling him back into familiar warmth. He was back at Steve's side, the blond rugby player holding him close.

"I would for you."

Darren gapped at him. "Steve…" he breathed out in the purest tone of gratitude, "you'd do the whole double date thing for me?"

"Of course, Dare," Steve let out a surprised chuckle, "after all the shit you've done for me? Getting me out of holding, being my one phone call, pulling me out of fights, knocking the fuck outta me when I'm an arse. I can be a third-wheel for you, mate."

"What about Julia?" Darren curled back into his friend's side, "She's into you, yeah?"

"Burned that bridge when I chucked my phone clean through the wall," Steve said. "Right above her head, too."

"Jesus, Steve," Darren's flinched at the thought, "that sounds intense, even for you, mate."

"Yeah, counting backwards and thinking of a happy place did shit for me there." Honestly, he had completely forgotten his anger management techniques in that moment. "She called you a faggot and all this other shit, and I just fuckin' couldn't take it. She was about to go down on me, but I couldn't after hearing what she said about you. I'm a whore, but you're still my best mate."

Darren stared at his best friend with moonlight eyes. Those plush lips curled up into the most genuine smile Steve could remember. Darren didn't have to say anything else because those beautiful eyes said everything from 'You insane, bloody sap' to 'Thank you.' His face seemed to slide from Steve's chest to his collar, that radiant, soft smile carrying him closer and closer to Steve.

Their foreheads pressed together. His hand found its way into Steve's platinum locks. They carded through Steve's hair before resting at his neck. Slowly those fingertips massaged deep circles into the base of Steve's skull. They rolled the tight muscles underneath his skin, working out tiny knots he didn't even know were there.

Steve sighed into the touches.

"Why aren't you freaking out like you did before?" Darren asked with his head still pressed to Steve's and his fingers still massaging his neck.

Steve gave a low chuckle, "Cause your fingers are magic."

Darren laughed a little, but Steve knew he wasn't satisfied with that answer. He still searched Steve's expression, looking for another reason to his change in demeanor.

But Steve really didn't have an answer. He wanted to say the weed, but it was more than just a good high. It felt deeper, more visceral. "I don't want to hurt you again."

"I'm tough," Darren whispered. "I'm more worried about you hurting yourself…"

Steve looked at Darren with pure shock. He tried to pretend not to know what he meant, but he knew full well.

"What? You busted your hand boxing? You always wrap up properly, and I've seen you get on to some of the other guys for doing such a shit job with his own wraps. And the Elle poster?"

Steve's headache roared to life again, and he desperately wished he hadn't smothered out that blunt.

"You don't have to tell me how it happened," Darren's fingers never stopped working atop Steve's neck "I'm just worried, that's all."

Steve wanted to make the memories go away. He was mellow, he was happy, but the anger and hatred of those moments, when Eric took Darren away in that fucking Honda civic and then fucked his mouth in a fucking theater, hands all over Darren's lean body and slipping them past the hem of his jeans to make those plush lips quiver and moan—Steve's mind was spiraling. He felt his arms tense and his teeth go on edge. The high was dropping, turning, evaporating into the air like the clouds above their head. Everything felt too close. Darren, his legs, hands, sheets, warmth, moans, blood, anger, everything—

"Dare, where's the stash?" Steve asked, eyes darting around the room. When his mom took up AA meetings and therapy, she quit cold turkey. She poured out every wine, vodka, and rum bottle in the house straight down the kitchen sink. Or, so she thought. Steve swiped some of his favorites (the ones that may or may not have been shoplifted) and hid them over at Darren's.

In a few quick motions, Darren was off the bed and hunched down in his closet. He had to get on all fours and crawl to the back.

Steve silently thanked God for Darren's love of whiskey and hard liquor. Just the thought of burning vodka sliding down his throat cleared his mind for a moment.

As Darren rifled through a pile of church suits, Steve's eyes drifted to Darren's arse. Totally normal. He was two and a half blunts deep, his dick was just smashed against a warm, soft thigh, and less than two hours ago a silky throat almost swallowed him down. It was simple curiosity. More like nature, really. An arse is an arse, and from behind could anyone really tell the difference? And the position Darren took was just so cruel, how could Steve look away?

Darren's arse swayed with each shirt and suit jacket he tossed out. It was like the opening to almost every cheesy porno ever. It would've been funny. The lonely housewife bends over to 'clean,' wiggles that plush rear and grunts (Oh, this stain is just so hard to get!) the camera guy gets those close up shots of her ample arse that make the two-pump-chumps blow, then the pizza guy comes in and rams her on the kitchen floor till the husband drives up. But instead of a buxom housewife, Steve was staring down a lean soccer-player with a round arse, thick thighs, and a pair of banging legs rivaling Cassandra Peterson's 1974 spread in High Society Magazine (Ferter Hiram, gott besche that dirty old man).

Darren crawled out, arse first, while still on his hands and knees. He was fisting a half-empty bottle of vodka that he fished out of a small, secret cooler. He perched himself on his knees, his rear resting on the heels of his feet, and took a swig straight from the bottle.

"Fuck, Shan," Steve said, his eyes still firmly planted on his friend's backside.

Darren looked back at Steve still splayed out on the bed. He extended the bottle towards him while still rooted in front of the closet.

Steve climbed down the bed and rested his back against the frame and box spring. Darren inched closer to him, sliding across the carpet on his knees with the vodka presented like a trophy.

Steve took a healthy shot, but not before Darren downed another. The kid could hold his liquor, but this was intense even for Darren's iron tolerance.

He settled next to Steve; his right shoulder pressed next to Steve's sturdy body. His head swooned from the motion. The two deep chugs of vodka slashed his reaction time. Darren had to lean against Steve for a solid minute so his eyes could catch up with the rest of him.

The pair passed the bottle back and forth for a time, each taking small sips to stretch out the drink.

"Hey," Darren gripped onto Steve's jacket with sloppy fingers, "any weed left?"

"Just a nub," Steve's head sloshed to the side and hit the bed frame with a resounding 'thunk.' If he wasn't so tattered, that would've hurt. "One last toke?" Steve pulled the poor blunt out from his pocket.

Darren lit the nub between his fingers and sucked it down into oblivion. He held the smoke in his cheeks for a good minute before his eyes went wide. He frantically waved his hands back and forth between himself and Steve in some drunken imitation of sign language.

Steve leaned in, but that wasn't close enough for Darren. He pulled the blond by the shoulders right to his face, their lips nearly touching. His right hand moved to the back of Steve's neck and angled him down. Steve was left staring into his friend's insanely green eyes as tendrils leaked past his mouth. In one long stretch, Darren blew the smoke out. Flashing a grin, Steve opened his mouth. His lips parted and took in Darren's breath, inhaling the high straight from the brunet. He closed his eyes, feeling the drug overtake his lungs again and his body go slack. The smoke curled upwards in the air for only a mere second before Steve captured it all. As the smoke tumbled from Darren's lips, Steve inhaled and felt his body peak all over again from the shotgun.

Steve opened his eyes after the last of their supply finally dissipated into their bodies. And what a fucking sight.

Darren's hands still clung to the back of Steve's neck and his shoulder, and his lips laid parted and looked so ready. They glistened in the moonlight, glossed up by saliva. Those lips were so captivating that Steve barely noticed his friend's gaze.

"You're staring again…" Darren whispered.

A twinge spread over Steve's neck. He craned down, closer to the smoke, those lips, Darren. Even once he realized how close he was to Darren, he still inched closer and closer with each passing second.

Steve was a mere inch away from Darren now. "M' sorry…" he slurred, "yer just s'pretty..."

"Pretty?" Darren's lips gave a full pout, and he popped Steve's shoulder with a weak hand that nearly missed as he chewed on the word. "What about handsome?"

"Nope, pretty," Steve confirmed and pressed his head to Darren's. The brunet giggled, smacking at Steve's shoulders in weak attempts to push him away. "Ya got pretty eyes," his darkening gaze landed on those emerald gems that seemed to shine for no one else but Steve, "an' pretty hair," his fingers rolled through Darren's thick, dark locks, scratching his scalp with the motion. Darren let out a small sigh, pushing his head into the touch with a near moan. Steve witnessed those lips again. They parted and smiled for him, juiced up from vodka and weed, moaning from his touches. "An' a fuckin' gorgeous mouth," Steve heard himself say.

_But his own voice faded out, distance stretching out the words into some hellish whisper. Blazing wind ripped the flesh off his back. He felt so hot, so unbearably hot. Even the air he drank in burned up his throat and boiled his lungs. The words that felt so far away clawed their way out of his mouth and strummed guttural pain with each syllable. Steve reached for Darren, but his hands fell heavy on wet grass. Steve was on his hands and knees, dirt caking his palms and the pungent scent of London summer choking his charred mouth. The wrapping on his hand disappeared, replaced by solid ground. His fingers curled around the earth, digging up dirt and gravel and clipped lawn shavings. Damp soaked through his jeans, ruining his mum's patchwork seams over the knees. Humid air blazed across his back and stabbed his thick arms. And a face, a beautifully broken face, with green eyes and tear-stained cheeks stared back up at him._

_Darren laid on his back with both arms dead at his sides. Steve had caged in the brunet's body with his own, each hand on either side of Darren's head. His dark hair blended into the night and ground. He was saying something, or Steve assumed he was. His lips fluttered in the dark, shadows of dancing words flickering with the street lamp._

_He tried to listen. Darren's mouth opened and closed, frantically at times and calm at others, but all Steve could make out was bare silence. He even tried to read the man's lips, but his vision cut in and out with the searing fire and heat assaulting his senses. Darren's visage would flash, pained and crying, then cut to black. It was like staring into the frames of a movie, one that skipped and jolted with each new picture. Then Darren's hands caressed Steve's face._

_The heat died. All the blazing wind ceased and curled back into hell. The fire raging in his lungs and throat dissipated, and he could hear the silence that fell over them. Darren's face came into full-frame. No stuttering, no cuts, nothing to keep Steve's eyes away._

_"I missed you," Darren croaked, his hands holding Steve's face so close to his own. "I missed you so much, Steve."_

_"Ikh hab dir lib..." Steve heard himself whisper. Darren's brows raised and pondered on his forehead. Steve felt his heart clench, the fire returning in full force and burning up his insides. The whole of Gehenna, the damned place of filth and sin, roared inside his soul. How stupid could he be to say something like that? What sick God forced such cruel words out of him, only to be denied and betrayed by the only person he love—_

_Darren wrenched him out of damnation. With strong, sure hands, he sealed their mouths together in a hungry, desperate kiss. _

_Steve felt his lips part and fold into Darren's, rolling his tongue along his bottom lip. He bit down hard on the plushness, marveling at the taste of salty, slick flesh between his teeth. Darren cried into Steve's mouth and shuddered at the tongue laying an even deeper claim on his body. Steve felt his arms encircle Darren's waist and hold on for dear life. He lowered his pelvis down into a pair of open, welcoming legs and bucked. Darren practically wailed, his voice a song of desperation and lust. He grinded his hips back into Steve's, matching the brutal pace the blond set. He watched Darren's face twist as the ecstasy climbed, his brows knit and his skin go flush in the trembling, yellow light. Steve chased his own high, grinding his hard cock into Darren's pliant body. His hands took firm hold of Darren's round arse, squeezing and bruising the supple flesh, marking him up for the world to see. He rammed into Darren with everything he had. Those delicious screams begged him on, gripping his muscled arms for dear life and riding out each thrust. Steve grinded his hard, dripping cock over and over again into his friend's denim-caged inner thighs. He bared down on the smaller man, grinding, and chasing his climax till he felt the coil wind up in his gut, winding up so tight in heady pleasure and hot flesh till he nearly busted. Steve was there, he was right there on the cusp when Darren looked up at him, eyes blissed out and his body spent and fucked good on the dirty ground and moaning out—_

A blasting car horn ripped Steve out of his dreams. The sheets, barely clinging to the corners of the bed, tried to cover Steve's body sprawled across the floor. His ankle lay perched on the mattress, but the rest of him ached horrendously after sleeping on the hardwood floor. His mouth felt like cotton and a sour film coated his gums. His head roared with a splitting hangover that left him whimpering with each honk of that fucking Honda civic. His jacket and jeans had been tossed somewhere out of sight, leaving him shirtless in his boxer briefs. His heavy cock laid atop his right thigh. It twitched and ached with each passing second. As his hard length strained against the thin fabric of his boxers, a pit formed at his very core.

He stuffed a hand into his boxers once he heard the water turn on. 'Darren started his shower…' the thought idled in his brain as his fingers grazed the head of his cut cock. His hand started a slow pace, but soon he began furiously pumping. Each stroke buckled his knees, and he imagined how hot the water must be. He stroked himself to the images that refused to leave his mind. Darren's lithe body soaked in steaming water, his skin flushed red and pliant by the heat, his slick hands gliding over his lean chest, those gorgeous eyes that only cried for Steve, those rough hands so gentle on the blond's face, that thick ass grinding on Steve's cock and those thighs that he just wanted to mark up with bruises and bite marks before coating in ropes of thick cum-

He swiped his thumb over the head and spilled. He bucked into his hand, holding back moans and coating his hand in spunk. White-hot pleasure twisted his vision and convulsed his frame in brutal aftershocks. He bit down on his tongue and slammed his head on the floor, his legs and thighs tensing as his cock spilled the last of its seed. Steve pulled his hand out from his boxers. An excessive amount of cum drenched his fingers in a milky white. He grimaced and wiped away the evidence on his underwear. He thought of Darren again; Darren, who must be so excited to see Eric and tell him how great Steve was for tagging along to the circus. Darren, who trusted Steve and fought for him like no one else did. Darren, his best friend since primary school. Darren, who was in love with a guy that wasn't Steve.

"The fuck's wrong with me..." Steve said to no one but his own stupid, fucked-up self.


	5. Burning Wit

Burning Wit

* * *

The tenth circle of Hell is the back of Eric's Honda Civic—not for its contents, however. Steve sat behind the driver's seat, the typical filth of a twenty-something's car festering around him. Empty cans of beer and bags of takeaway scuffed up his old Adidas. Busted CD cases, _Train _and _The Goo Goo Dolls, _mixed in with the mounting trash. Stains of unknown substances littered the back seat, some crusted into the fabric; possibly a 'mayonnaise' stain. Acrid and moldy scents, like spoiled milk mixed with rancid sweat-soaked underwear, permeated the air through a zipped gym bag sitting behind the passenger's seat.

Hell wasn't where Steve sat.

Hell was the view from his little corner of fallen paradise in the back seat; sitting behind the man he absolutely hated; watching his best friend preen and fawn over the ginger wanker like a deprived school girl; singing along to the radio in the way that only blissful, love-struck teenagers (well teenager and a _fuckin' grown man)_ could.

The back seat was Steve's own throne of _Pandemonium,_ and the passenger's seat was that last ray of Holy Light streaming down.

The passenger's seat — where Darren sat; where he took Eric's pitiful apology with a pliant smile; where he laughed at the stupid, absolute_ bullshit_ seeping out of Eric's mouth; where his fingers flipped through radio stations till drumming away the instrumental set of _War Pigs_ by Black Sabbath; where he turned back to Steve and mouthed '_Begging mercies for their sins, Satan laughing spreads his wings_,' and hit every beat with a wild air-guitar solo; where he laughed at Eric's shitty attempts to crank out the drums on the wheel and steer the Civic through a two-way intersection; where Darren popped him on the shoulder for his recklessness but laughed all the same; where he kissed him on the lips as they came to a red light.

Steve's heart crawled inside his stomach and burned up in the acid. On his throne of garbage, back-seat shag-stains, and self-pity, the blond watched the couple fade into blissful ignorance. Maybe this was better. If Darren had been paying attention, that scary kind of attention that only a budding writer has, he might've picked up on it.

The way Steve shifted in his seat, how he kept his eyes dead set on the radio and passing road, and his unusually flushed complexion. Maybe Darren could've seen it if he really wanted to. But he didn't. He was too lost in his own world, it seemed. Too lost in happiness, maybe from Steve's 'sacrifice' to smell the salt and sweat clinging to his friend's body. Too happy, too _trusting_ to really be aware of how Steve stroked himself raw to the thought of Darren's spunk-covered arse less than an hour ago.

But Steve was painfully aware. So aware, in fact, that he could still feel rough fingers graze the head of his cock. Darren's fucked out body and brain-melting moans bubbled over his crippling shame in rapid snapshots. His dick twitched to life caged behind insanely tight khakis. Usually, Steve wore a loose fit that sagged whenever he walked in the typical gangster fashion. But these weren't his clothes. Darren, the wonderful friend that he is, loaned (forced) Steve into a uniform set for the day despite the blond's lax attitude. The brunet went on and on about truancy and write-ups and detention and blah blah blah. To make Darren shut up for his hangover's sake, Steve donned the smaller teen's dress shirt, sweater, tie, and khakis.

Steve never realized just how much larger he was than Darren. As young teens, Steve was the tall gangly one of the bunch and Darren the short, portly one. The summer before year 10, Darren went off to football camp while Steve sweated through grueling lifting sessions in his mum's basement. The friends didn't see each other for two and a half months. Every text and call happened in secret, in the wee hours of the morning with Darren on speaker so Steve could beat his chin-up record from the previous night. The camp counselors had a strict one-call-a-day policy and kept everyone's phones in the main office's lockbox. When Steve's phone pinged that familiar tune (a ripped recording of the Wolf Man's cry from _An American Werewolf in London _when he tears the girl in half_) _he almost couldn't believe the story. Well, he could _believe_ the story, but straight-laced alter boy Darren sinning in the eyes of sweet baby Jesus? Unthinkable. Then Darren relayed to Steve in excited whispers over the phone the heist he committed; how he got on the head counselor's good side, only to swipe the keys from him and sneak in at night to nab his phone back. Steve always thought Darren was a goody-two-shoes with a bad streak, but that night flipped his assumptions. And, frankly, it excited Steve.

So, when Darren finally arrived home a whole four inches taller (still six shorter than Steve), his paunchy stomach replaced with taut abs, and thighs that could crush a man's skull, Steve lost it a little bit. He barely recognized the teen standing in front of him that first day of year 10. Darren, the chubby kid obsessed with spiders and gory movies, morphed into a tanned soccer player with a deep, smooth voice roughed up by a Dubliner's childhood. Shivers ran up Steve's spine with each husked out syllable. Out of shock, of course.

_"Steve?" His voice was like a shot of your Dad's bourbon edged with honey. Darren jogged to a halt on the football field in front of the blond. He'd been practicing his forward stride and pocket shots before the first bell. A light sweat dampened his dark hair, sending his cow-lick upright and curled. "God, mate," he clapped Steve on the bicep once, twice, three times and squeezed on the final downswing. "Remind me not to piss you off, Christ. Where'd these come from?"_

_Steve shrugged it off and tried to act casual about his two-stone bulk up. But when Darren gripped his thick forearm and marveled at the muscle flexing beneath, Steve's ego nearly blew. Then Darren's hands found their way to his pecs. He patted the solid flesh like a damn cheerleader getting in with the rugby team and Steve _**_flexed_ **_into it. But that's just what guys do. They get hype over each other's new muscles, swap regimes, admire one another's builds, destroy weights together... Right?_

A budding erection killed that sentiment. Steve's backpack sat in-between his legs in a bid to cover his shame. The wide stance appeared as a show of dominance and very _Steve_ with one foot planted over the hump and the other against the door. But Darren's pants were so damn tight around his crotch. Even a half-blind virgin would blush at the outline of his cock and balls tucked heavy and tight atop his leg.

The feel of Darren's clothes on his skin wasn't helping his 'little problem' either. White, stifling fabric stretched over Steve's chest and arms. He smelled Darren's shampoo and cologne. It was a sweet, musky scent; a mix of warm beer, cut grass, and sugar that seemed so Darren. The scent bloomed with Steve's rising body heat. It raised hot off his collar and wrapped around his twitching cock.

'It's the weed,' he told himself, 'and the hang-over. And Darren was so fuckin' warm and all over you last night.' That horribly vivid dream reared back from his short memory. It held sheers trained on his last thread of sanity.

"Darren, babe?" Eric's grating voice cut through Steve's spiral. _God, he'd never be so thankful for that fucker's timing ever again._

The brunet's head seemed to drag out of a haze. Those green eyes were still glazed over with the sights of the passing London cityscape. "Hmm?" His lips pursed up in acknowledgment, but his sight never made contact.

"He said change the station, you twat," Steve reached between the pair and thumbed the FM channels. He didn't have to pay excessive amounts of attention (or any, really) to figure what was going on. Eric had two empty _Train _CD cases in the back and fumbled all over Butler's killer bass riff. Like Hell this schmuck could sit through a classic metal station.

"Thanks, mate," Eric flashed him a smile, all teeth and freckles and _bullshit._

Biting down his own tongue was the only way for Steve to not seeth 'Blow it out your arse.' So, he smiled weakly at the thought and flipped through.

Static cut in with oscillating voices of pop singers, rappers, and the occasional soft rock tune. Eric drove on, coming to a hard stop on Westminster Avenue just a half-mile from St. Thomas. All the wind rushing in from the open windows ceased. Eric seemed to stall on the gas, letting the car inch forward past the intersection. They crept through without another car, another person, another being in sight on the usually busy streets. Everything stood still and silent aside from the Honda Civic thrumming on its last leg. Only the car radio played. Then Steve's fingers twitched the knob. The static and voices halted for a mere second only for a desperately panicked voice to assault the car.

_"_—_burned and left outside Our Lady of Sorrow church this morning. Police are waiting on identification to give any more details to the public."_

"Another one?" Eric pumped the accelerator and knocked Steve back into his seat.

"Good Lord, that's terrible…" Darren covered his mouth and refused to listen any further. He went to change the station, but Steve pounced and dashed away the fingers.

Instead, he turned up the volume.

"Stev—"

A violent shushing from the blond cut him off. Steve focused his ears, shut them off to everything besides the man on the radio. He had to hear this.

_"_—_victim of the same culprit, who police have yet to declare a serial killer. As far as the public knows, this is the third body found in the last two months across central London burned beyond recognition. If police confirm that this individual was killed in the same brutal fashion, our hearts go out to the grieving family."_

"Nasty stuff, yeah?" Eric didn't even look up from the road.

"How'd I miss this?" Steve scanned his memory for any mentions of burned bodies, missing people, strange activity, anything to point to this soap opera-like culmination. And maybe he came off a bit excited. The prospects of a serial killer, or even _killers, _excited that sick itch in his brain. The same itch that nearly made him enlist in the army, skulk around the dark web, and left his fingers twitching at the sight of a bloody sparring partner on the ground. And, not to mention, blood and gore were a great distraction from whatever was going on in his pants.

"Darren said you were into morbid stuff…"

"Just curious, s'all," Steve wondered just _how_ much he knew. Given that Darren told him about Mr. Crepsley, would it be a stretch to think that he knew about Vur Horston by extent? Was that what the freak show comment was all about? Butter him up with the chance of meeting a 'vampire' like how he fantasized as a kid? Tough chance, bloody cunt. "I don't see you turning off the radio, Eric." Steve grinned internally. The bloke was just as fucked up, and he couldn't hide it from—

"Guess I'm curious too, then."

Eric parked the car just short of the school gate, turning off the engine, the radio with it, leaving Steve no time to process what he just heard. And it was here that Steve truly studied Eric for the first time.

All the previous details retained their original hideousness, what with his crew-cut ginger hair and his freckle-fucked face. Steve noticed his clean-shaven, squared-off jaw that seemed constantly relaxed. Darren was a frustrating, oblivious kid; no one could be _that _relaxed around him all the time. His lips, thin and rarely apparent, never seemed to quirk anything but a smile. Steve couldn't even make out the ghost of a frown, grimace, sneer, nothing. And his eyes, a dark brown and hooded by a prominent brow ridge, never moved. They _moved, _of course, all eyes fucking move, but Eric's never _shifted_. Those are the kind of eyes that never search unfamiliar parts of town or shift about in dark hallways. To eyes like that, everything is familiar. _Intimately familiar._

Ice shot down Steve's spine.

He threw the car door open, mumbled a quick thanks to the ginger demon, and rolled the fuck out. Darren called and scrambled after him to the beat of old loafers crying on the pavement. The worst sound was the soft peck Darren laid on Eric's cheek. Steve didn't have to look back, and he didn't, he didn't steal a glance at those lips on that interloper's skin, to know. The sound of those plush lips dug at his core.

But Hell followed him out. Steve tried walking away, but a thick hand clapped him on the shoulder. He stopped dead in his tracks. If Darren wasn't staring at him, _daring _him to try something, Steve would've laid Eric flat on his back then kept punching till he broke his other hand on that fucking jawline.

"Thanks, by the way, mate," Eric went to shakes Steve's good hand but retracted at the last second. _Not as dumb as Steve originally thought… _"With you around, Darren can have a really good time at the circus and won't worry about anything." He glanced at Darren, who's eyes shifted back and forth between the two boys like a ref ready to call. "You're a good friend, looking out for him and supporting him an' all that. Kinda like one of those service dogs that follow their owners around and keep them out of trouble—"

_Did this son of a bitch just call him a _**_dog? _**_And that Darren fuckin' trained_ **_him?_**

"—and, I dunno, feel like I owe you, mate. Darren mentioned you needin' a date for the night?" Eric ended on a sly smile, slinging an arm over Steve's shoulder. _He should've just gone for the goddamn handshake._

"Ain't interested in whatever bloke you wanna set me up with, _mate," _Steve shook his arm off with a grimace, "don't pitch for your team."

Eric's laugh sounded hollow and abrasive to Steve's ears. He clapped Steve on the back another time, blissfully unaware of the thin line between _horribly maimed_ and _excruciating death_.

Darren, who's witnessed Steve's childish tantrums evolve into near knifings, barreled between the two. "Eric's close with the girl's netball club," Darren's hand rested atop his boyfriend's shoulder, but his gaze held Steve. "I mean, that might be a bit _old _for you, but you can always chase the freshers, yeah?" The joke was well-placed and poignant, rousing yet another chuckle from Eric. Darren's mouth perked at the corners, a barely-there smile that could never alter his gaze. Those green eyes stayed with Steve and pierced his core.

Darren was pleading with him to drop it all and walk away. Steve knew what Darren wanted to say: _'Just say thank you and leave it, you daft arsehole!_

Shifting his gaze between the two, Steve cursed internally. With a wry laugh and an eye roll that could've sent his head off, Steve finally agreed. He just wanted this to be over; apparently, the only way to do that was to give in to Darren's superior guilt trip. "I like brunettes," Steve trained his eyes away from Darren's dark locks, "preferably with fat asses, if ya got any in stock."

Eric bobbed a nod Steve's way, his lips pursed and his eyes searching the back of his skull for something. "Think I know a few bottom-heavy brunettes…" he slid a look Darren's way, but the younger didn't seem to notice; he was too busy scolding Steve for his objectifying language.

Steve noticed, though. He watched Eric's gaze roam around Darren's body for a brief second. Inadvertently, that also meant _Steve's _eyes rolled over Darren's long legs, built calves, and thick thighs, before crawling that trimmed V line underneath his thin school shirt.

Steve's gaze flicked back up. Eric was watching him too, it seemed. His gaze was curious, subtle yet intense. Then he grinned just enough for Steve to notice. And with that sly smile and a quick kiss to Darren's mouth, shielded by Steve's shadow, Eric's slithered back into the Civic. The engine roared to life before cruising down an uncomfortably dead London street.

Steve watched the car peel out. Darren walked alongside him, chattering away about everything unimportant. How rude Steve could be, but how proud he was that Eric and him were finally getting along, what they should do for lunch and free period if Steve wanted to go over drills with the football club. But he wasn't listening. Not really. His senses were locked on the Civic long gone by now. The road faded away behind the school gates, but Steve could still picture that car turning over back roads, dissolve into the dark entrails of London, and fester away into oblivion as the radio newsman spun static woes of young lads charred to a crisp.

God was not kind to Steve that morning. Aside from the blond's surprise visit from his raging, substance-fucked hormones, God had bestowed upon him _yet another gift: _God, in all his infinite wisdom and glory and fucked sense of humor, created yet an 11th circle of Hell just for him.

In first block, History (the only class he shared with Darren) Alan Morris usually sat in front of him. He hadn't changed much since year 6. Aside from losing that hideous bowl cut for equally hideous long, matted hair hidden underneath a skullcap, that is. It hung in thick greasy strands tied behind his slim back, keeping his face clear from obstruction. Alan still had a childish look to him, despite the new-age, free-love hippie-locks. His eyes were the same beady dots rolling around in his skull; his cheeks still held plumpness despite his wire-thin frame; and he still hoarded awkward tendencies and style, like those baby lizards he kept in his numerous atriums for 'science.'

Alan was always going on about his science classes and personal research. He was obsessed with lizards and reptiles the same way Darren was with spiders. But Alan took it to a new level. The red-haired teen was just so caught up in his 'biology experiments' that he let everything else fall to the wayside. His looks, his friends, _girls even. _Still fun to hang out with, on occasions. He often showed Darren, Tommy, and Steve his 'failed' lizard-breeding attempts. Again, very weird—but also kinda baller to see a two-headed lizard try to eat itself.

Overall, Steve had grown accustomed to the lanky, rail-thin lad. He was entertaining and useful with the appropriate application. Morris's head protected his eyes from Professor Groban's intense, sweeping gaze that pinpointed victims to read aloud. And for that Steve was grateful. But today, and of course today of all fucking days, Morris sat next to the window on the opposite side of the classroom. Something about needing fresh air and relative wind-speed—utterly stupid and useless to Steve. Darren, who usually sat next to Steve and shushed him every class period, now sat in front of him.

"What," Steve reclined in his seat, nearly snapping the plastic back in half, and propped his feet on the desk. "I smell or somethin'?"

"Like weed and BO," Darren dropped his schoolbag with a heavy thud, textbook in hand, and turned his back to the blond before retorting: "So no, no different than usual."

A swift kick to Darren's seat had the brunet yelping and cussing Steve out just in time for Professor Groban to catch an earful.

The elderly, severe teacher clutched his breast pocket at the obscenities pouring out of Darren's mouth. He was a hard sixty with a creased face and ruddy complexion that only the angriest of Catholics seem lucky enough to acquire. Those deep lines soured at the filth that rung forth from Darren's mouth, totally unaware of his own impending demise. _Dumbass._

"Mr. Shan," the class went quiet aside from Steve's muffled cackles.

Darren gave a stiff, slow turn to see Mr. Groban. He looked as if Darren just tongue raped his dead mother. "I expect that filth from the ingrate behind you. Control yourself or they may give you Mr. Leonard's chair in the Dean's office."

Steve watched on in glee as Darren was reamed in front of the class. A dusting of red ran over his friend's tanned cheek, and Steve nearly lost it when the brunet sank down into his seat in shame.

Using the thick textbook as a protective force from trained eyes, Darren flipped him the bird with a deadly look. 'You're dead, _Leopard.'_

'Love you too, Shan~' Steve mouthed back, punctuating the sentiment with a loud, pursed kiss.

"If you're done berating Mr. Leonard," Professor Groban noisily flipped through textbook pages, filling the room with a papered staccato, "then could you please summarize last session's reading over the Germanic leaders responsible for the fall of Rome and, if not _too _troublesome, include your interpretation of their roles?"

'Oh, rough deal,' thought Steve to himself. But he couldn't really feel too bad for Darren. All that sass and wit comes with a price and, apparently, it's embarrassing yourself in—

Steve nearly choked on his own spit when Darren stood up to answer their professor. Like a proper lad, he stood with his back straight, his head held high, and his hands clasped in front of himself. The standing was fine; every student must stand to answer a question or recite passages to the class. But he was used to _Morris _standing. Morris, that skinny toothpick with all-consuming hoodies and khakis that hung off his body like billowing bed-sheets on a clothesline.

But Darren… Darren liked his uniform _tight. _Steve knew that intimately with the khaki's riding up his hips, cramping his dick and balls, and leaving nearly six inches of his lower leg exposed. On Darren, however, the uniform was a second skin. To top it off, Darren was the antithesis of gangly. Football bulked him out into lean muscle. His arms, though not as thick or cut as Steve's, were well-defined. That dress shirt stretched over his biceps and shoulders every time he stumbled with the answer; he'd get nervous and rolled his shoulders, try to muscle through in fidgety motions.

Steve should've just kept his fucking eyes up. But God glued his horndog mind to the _fat, perky fuckin' arse a foot away._

Darren stood there, his toned backside nearly at eye-level with Steve. He shifted from foot to foot as he fumbled through the answers, nervous and jittery with all the attention. It bounced underneath the fabric—taunting Steve.

The khaki material hugged the curves of Darren's legs. It dipped between his cheeks, cupped the swell of his rear, and tapered down into strong lines atop his thighs. Belted around his narrow hips, the tight material showed off everything. Steve could even make out the line of Darren's boxer-briefs. If he bent over a little bit, maybe the blond could even see the line of his cock pressed up—

Darren rocketed back down. Steve's eyes followed that arse all the way to the seat, till there was no more of that firm rear to follow.

Darren looked over his shoulder, his fiery gaze matching the flush on his cheeks. 'You bloody git.'

Steve hung off the movements of those lips that moved just for him, got lost in those eyes that looked only at him, felt his world go up in Hellfire in the presence of Darren fuckin' Shan.

Steve's cock stood at half-mast and laid trapped against his stomach by the waistband of Darren's pants. He sat like that for the whole period.

When first block ended and the bell rang, Steve mumbled a quick 'See ya later, mate,' bag covering his crotch and his eyes everywhere but Darren's face.

"Are you even listenin', Leopard?" Stubby, calloused fingers flashed in and out of Steve's vision with a cracking snap. His ears perked back to life at the nickname. Only the rugby and football guys still called him that on account of his ruthlessness on the field.

His steel gaze revved up, landing onto Tommy Jones' square head. By the beginning of every rugby practice, Jones' gelled crew cut was completely ruined. Short, chestnut spikes stuck out in all directions; not in the 'just shagged your mum' fashion like Steve's but like an off-brand Chris Kirkpatrick. It clashed with the rest of his jockish appearance: square face, knobby nose, goofy smile, and not to mention his solid build. Dude was a walking meat-shield. He wasn't as tall as Steve, but he was about twice as wide and could knock him onto the short bus.

"Honestly," Steve dabbed at his sweating forehead with a rugby jersey, "I was re-watching Catherine Deneuve fuck the shit out of Susan Sarandon on the back of my eyelids."

Tommy stalled. The stocky rugby-football extraordinaire had already shucked off his school uniform for shoulder guards. His jersey hung way off his broad shoulders and thick torso in a strange, disgusted imitation of _The Thinker_. "Leopard, why you gotta talk about skin flicks in the showers?"

"It's _The Hunger,_ moron," he spat. "And don't compare Deneuve and Sarandon's passionate lez-session to some fuckin' porno. That shit was _artful_," the teen dragged his jersey over his face and through his blond locks, now darkened into a true blond from sweat. The polyester tugged at his day-old stubble on each swipe.

"An artsy skin-flick is still a skin-flick, man," Steve's brain literally seized up at the idiocy seeping from that meat-machine's heretic mouth. "And did you skip? Darren was lookin' for you at lunch," Jones tugged the rugby jersey over his head before re-adjusting the red fabric on his body protection.

Steve stomped the thought of Darren's crestfallen face out of his brain. He merely grunted and nodded in reply. Even when he tried to avoid the guy all-day—literally caging himself up in the school weight room—Steve couldn't shake him.

"Picked a bad day. Darren snuck in some whiskey, and you missed Alan's flyin' show," he recounted the feats of a tiny lizard Alan smuggled in his school bag. Its front arms were fused to its body by long, thin wings of veiny pink flesh. It would start up in a limp, jumpy run then glide across the grass in fumbled 'flight.' Apparently, the lizard was hunting a spider. It would go in, jaws wide and ready, only to be thwarted by Darren and his nimble fingers every time.

Steve saw it all too clearly: a tiny, helpless spider crawling around Darren's rough palms; soft coos melting over his mouth as the insect threaded through the brunet's fingers; flecks of gold rays and joy dancing in his irises every time he looked down at that gross eight-legged bug. Darren would've smiled up at Steve, rambling on about the tensile strength of spider silk or something stupid. And Steve would've smiled back, sneaking some whiskey and trying not to laugh at how fast Darren talked when rattling off random spider-facts. He missed that; getting buzzed right under the teacher's noses, trying to catch those nasty pickled onions Darren tossed in his mouth, laughing it up with Jones while Alan protected his latest experiment from Mama-Bear Darren.

His stomach flipped at the thought.

"Have you just been here the whole time?" Jones asked, now fully decked in rugby gear. "Gettin' some reps in before practice today?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve didn't feel too bad about lying to Tommy. The kid would believe anything, and Steve didn't feel like explaining his weed-fucked libido and how he couldn't sit through lunch or free period without popping a semi over Darren Fucking Shan. He made a mental note to hit up his dealer. And maybe break some of his fingers for lacing his weed with whatever the fuck he laced it with. He didn't steal from his dad just to get some sexpot and pop rods at bloody _everything._

"I appreciate the dedication, but don't go beast on the football guys like last time, 'kay? You nearly broke Dave Morgan's leg again when you grounded him."

Now Steve stalled, jersey half-way over his built, well-toned chest. His brain stuttered out in recollection of the last time he played with the football club when he fractured Morgan's right tibia after the dumbass tried to dodge his tackle. _Can't dodge the Leopard, cunt_. He tried parsing just why the fuck Morgan, a fucking midfielder, was even on the rugby field-

He let loose in a strangled groan "—Sports Exchange."

Sports Exchange was a futile attempt by Dean Crosby-that fat, balding sonofabitch- to promote 'camaraderie, versatility, and good-will' amongst all the after-school sports clubs. Rugby, football, cricket, tennis, basketball, and any other sport you could think of formed a giant cluster-fuck across all the fields and courts (both outdoor and indoors) and ruined Steve's daily meditation. How was he supposed to demolish people when they barely knew how to take a tackle (lookin' at you, Morgan) without cryin' like bitches?

So, in languished steps outpaced by Jones' bouncing trot with the rest of the rugby team, Steve walked into the middle of the annual Sports Exchange. _Whoop-dee-fucking-do. _Sweat would have already rolled down his nape a month ago after such a short walk. But the Summer heat was long gone. Brisk autumn wind dug at his collar in short, rapid jabs. The bitter scent of cut grass, rancid teenager BO, and a hint of pre-game whiskey stuck to the inside of Steve's nose. Players of all different standings and years ran across the open fields in high spirits. But Steve's eyes searched for only a single football player. His stomach flipped again when those green eyes came out of no-where, bright and wide and so _damn _happy to see Steve. Darren waved across the field, shouting something that Steve didn't bother to parse out. His organs clamped up at the sight. Thoughts of what happened last night, this morning in Darren's bedroom, and in first block inked down Steve's nape in cold sweat.

The blond would've stayed back in the locker room and broken his personal best on the bench. He could've gone the whole day, the whole _week _even without seeing Darren again. But now he had to roll with the lie Jones' so graciously accepted. It would have been suspicious otherwise, and if Darren noticed Steve was gone all Hell would have broken loose.

Jones amped up 'The Leopard's' return to the football field, gaining cheers and groans alike from the guys. Some clapped Steve on the shoulder and back, others avoided his sharp gaze and congregated in silent prayer on the other side of the field.

Involuntary swagger dirtied up the blond's gait. He couldn't help it, really. Few things feel greater than inspiring fear and dread in your opponents. And Steve milked the _shit outta that_. He flashed a grin at Morgan and cackled when the kid's right leg flinched. Then he began slinging insults and quips at football players and rugby players alike sitting out the match. Even Jones got into the shit-talk. The pair got high off the sport. They ran around shooting out high-fives and chest bumps, knocking heads together, hollering game chants, and causing general havoc (Steve more than Tommy, but what else is new?).

All the players squabbled in the middle of the field over teams and brackets.

"It can't _just _be rugby," Sam White said at the center. He moved back to East London after year 9 and bulked up into a lean, decent player. And a bit daft. "I was almost out for a whole season last year—"

"Then learn how to take a hit, White!" Steve jeered to the resounding hollers of approval from the rugby players. "Or, you can always sit out with Morgan," he sneered with a nasty, shit-eating grin. "You babies can cry together and suck on your mums' teats from the sideline."

White went for a comeback. His pale face was screwed up tight with an offense and the wind knocked his slicked back hair loose. With a fist raised, Sam White opened his mouth with all the confidence of Botha ready to lay that right jab to Tyson.

Then the Leopard flashed that oh-so-inviting smile. White's killshot was knocked back in his mouth and flat over his teeth with a choked murmur.

"Alright," Jones stepped in between the predator and its prey, "save it for the game. Let's just go for football, alright? Less injury, less risk of concussion, and everyone knows the rules."

Before anyone could refute the proposition, an Irish timbre called from the back goal post: "I got dibs on Leopard!"

Darren ran over to his taller friend and clapped his back to seal the claim in midst of their squabble. The brunet's lean stomach and chest were bare for the world to see. Sweat rolled down the carved lines of his hips and navel. He pushed back dark strands of hair in the chilled wind, revealing an undaunted gaze that Steve only saw on the field. Darren's cologne intermixed with his sweat dredged up memories from Eric's Civic. His gentle touch burned into Steve's skin. The cold wind turned searing across his back in the presence of Darren Shan. And where Darren's fingers still clutched onto his shoulder nearly fried Steve's nerves.

But Steve had little time to contemplate Darren's hand. After the brunet laid his claim to the Leopard, it was a free-for-all. Jones was picked up in an instant by Sam White and Dan Curtain, both wanting the star goalie for an old-school football reunion. And maybe to get back at Steve for the shit he just said to White and for giving Curtain's on-again-off-again piece, Sheila Leigh, a cumshot at Winter formal last year.

The teams were decided and took their positions with haste. Each team had 11 players, about half of the rugby and football club in total. The rest sat on the sidelines and made bets on the winner, number of goals scored in each quarter, and if anyone would break something. Tommy Jones lead the shirts as their goalie with Curtain as their center forward and White as defender. Jones was the only real star of the team, but he selected loyal teammates; guys who'd play a clean game.

The Leopard didn't play into that bullshit. Bloody, dirty, and unholy was the only way to dominate an opponent. And, naturally, Steve captained the skins.

"Nice carpet, Leopard," Morgan called from the sidelines with a sly grin.

"Thanks, mate," Steve looked down to his dark chest hair then back up. "I'm sure you'll get big-boy hair once your ballocks drop." Morgan's face fell and Steve trotted to his post.

As a midfielder, he'd aid Darren, their golden boy and striker, in scoring as many goals as possible against Jones and disrupting shots from the opposing team. Rounding out their team, was Jalal Rumi as goalie. Rumi, a lot like Jones, was a teen of stocky build. But he took it to the _nth _degree. Dude was _stacked. _Steve wouldn't step to that in a fair fight, in _any kind of fight_; not even if both of Rumi's freakishly huge arms were amputated. He was raised in a strict Turkish family, but that didn't stop the 18-year-old from throwing raging Halloween parties with slutty Elviras and beasting football matches. He was no Jones in terms of talent, but Steve and Darren grinned wildly at one another when the silent teen joined without a word.

Jones surveyed the other team from his post. "Guess that means I'm playing against you guys then," he gave a hearty chuckle and glanced Steve's way before donning his goalie gloves. "Good thing its football, right? I'd be in real trouble if this was rugby."

"I'd say you're in real trouble _now_, Jones," Steve crossed his arms over his bare chest.

"I mean, it's _football_, Leopard. You're a monster when it comes to tacklin' and rushin', but guarding with all that fancy footwork?" Jones gave another snort as if he found their predicament truly humorous. "But let's just keep it friendly, man."

"Yeah," Steve ushered Darren and his men to huddle up with a flick of his forefinger. "Friendly."

His soldiers mobilized around their commander, Darren at the front lines ready for orders. Steve rallied their mixed team of rugby and football players in the goalie box. "Here's the play: Pass the goddamn ball to Hot Shot Shan. I'll guard him and fuck up anyone that messes with his shot. Darren—" An air of fear and anxiety blanketed the team. When Steve 'Leopard' Leonard went on the rampage, all were liable for injury and emotional trauma.

But Darren matched that intensity beautifully. The brunet cocked up a mad grin; a soldier ready for his commander to give the word and cut some throats. "Rifles or machine guns, sir?"

"Dealer's choice," Steve grinned. "Let's send Jones home in a motherfuckin' body bag."

Darren took his post at the centerline without another word, itching for the kick-off. He squared up with Dan Curtain, a wiry lad with curly black hair and a hideous goatee. Curtain stood just a hair taller than Darren. He wasn't nearly as fit, but his scrawny build gave the kid crazy speed and snap-fast reflexes. Since shirts won the coin toss, Jones and his brigade took to defending against Hot Shot Shan's initial kick-off.

Ballsy. Stupid, but ballsy.

Morgan, on the sidelines standing clear of Steve's deadly cleats, raised his right hand. All eyes locked on the pseudo-referee giving the physical count down. Steve watched chunked fingers shotgun down from three to two to one. Then a high, airy whistle rang out. The ball soared through the air in an instant. A harsh kick from the side of Darren's foot sent it spinning straight for the goal, and the pawns alit with conviction onto their squares of the field.

Rocketing after his airborne charge, Darren weaved past Jones' midfielders along the right side. A shadow across the field, Steve kept a clean connection between himself and Darren. Should he need it, Steve would sweep in and take out the opposing defenders (Saunders and Holmvick—big, ugly, vaguely stupid props). Aimed at the top corner, the ball barely nipped the top of Jones' thumb. But it was just enough. The football clapped back to the ground and out into the field, bouncing once five yards past the penalty mark and into Curtain's possession.

He flew with it. Curtain slinked past the larger players, shuffling the ball back and forth between the tips of his feet. Larson, the center back, couldn't keep up. His wide, heavy cleat went in for an interception only for Curtain to snap the ball to his midfielder, White.

But White edged into the Leopard's range. Low and deceptively light, Steve closed the gap in an instant. His right foot cut off White's point of contact with the ball. With a swift sidekick, Steve cleaved White's ankle and shot the ball back to Darren.

"F-foul!" White staggered in his spot, but Steve was long gone. "That's a fuckin' foul! Ref?!"

From the corner of his eye, Steve saw Morgan grimace and shake his head. Steve made a _legal_ tackle for the ball. There was nothing Morgan could do that wouldn't appear as an act of favoritism or hatred towards the blond. White's flesh and bone were just mere casualties of war, now. And Steve _relished_ the sentiment.

In that wide, face-splitting grin, Steve marveled at his best friend going in for another goal. Darren was too fast for Saunders and Holmvick. He slid right through them and maneuvered the ball just out of their tackles like it was nothing. Another clean kick, tight and low to the turf, sent the ball straight under Jones' dive. The net gave to a textbook corner kick.

The first strike of a massacre began.

In the next 88 minutes, Darren dominated the field. It didn't matter how many goals Jones' blocked; Darren waylaid the goalie from all sides every chance he got. By half-time, sweat dripped down the sides of the brunet's face and slicked his hair a near jet-black. Chilled wind raised the flesh from his taut muscles; his chest heaved with each breath; verdant scars marred his knees and shins. But he was dauntless.

And maybe that was because Steve, the Leopard, his first pick and best mate, blazed the field up in barely legal pot-shots. The blond mowed down paths for his star-player at all costs, legality, and sportsmanship be damned. Bruises littered his shins and ankles from heavy contact with White, Saunders, and Holmvik. Every time one of the props turned defender went in for a tackle on Darren, Steve was right behind them. He left gnarly bruises on Holmvik's calves and the back of that meat-head's legs (and received a yellow card for it) for straying too close to Darren. And he'd do it a thousand times more. It didn't matter if they were his rugby mates nearly every day after class. Darren's been at his side since nursery, since primary school when they raised hell together in Mr. Dalton's class, since year 8 when Steve got shipped off to yeshiva for a semester—before being promptly kicked out—, since Steve's been _Steve._

In the last three minutes of the game, Darren secured their win flawlessly with a free-kick right into the goal. They were already winning with 3-1, but the brunet's textbook form sent the whole team rushing to celebrate their champion. Even Rumi, that stoic walking army, whooped and showboated from his goalie box before trapping the lithe lad in a wrestler's hug.

But Steve _really _milked the win for everything it was worth. He ran laps around the losers, corralling them into a tight ring of shame. Steve slung insults in mixed Yiddish and English, threw up the V to demonstrate how he strummed Mrs. Holmvik's cunt on the weekend, and he even blew some kisses Jones' way to mend his crushed pride. Cause he's a nice guy.

Steve made his rounds and ended his showboating in dramatic flair. He ran behind his star player, Darren, scooping the smaller teen by the thigh up onto his right arm. The blond spun them around, hollering into the chilled autumn breeze. Darren hooked his arm around the back of Steve's neck for support in their jubilation. He laughed along with every obscenity befitting a sore winner. Their bodies pressed, bare chest to bare chest. The chill was lifted from the blond's core, replaced with a beating warmth. Scents of crushed grass, fresh and bright, melted over a sugary, musked note. Steve almost tasted it. He felt it on the tip of his tongue, a phantom of something so familiar yet distant.

Steve glanced towards the brunet so close. Their foreheads were nearly pressed together. Strands of jet black and stark white hair tangled in the curling wind. Even obstructed by the haze of victory, Darren's eyes reflected the world back in a perfectly green reflection. Steve saw himself and only himself. The rest of the players had moved down the field and drank their post-game liquor from secret flasks.

No one but himself saw his arm cradle Darren's body. No one but himself could feel his heart stutter as the brunet shifted closer atop his bicep and forearm. And no one but himself heard the blood rush through his ears. It was too much. With Darren so close and the stifling air so thick around them, Steve slipped away. It felt as if he fell from high, thrown pitch long into a spiral he couldn't come back from. But the ground never came.

_Instead, he was caught by green eyes. A dark void accumulated more and more detail in his peripheral. Darren's street, the bit with the flickering, yellow light just in front of his house, bled behind Steve. Rushing cars and hot summer wind stabbed at his exposed back. But those eyes overtook him before reflecting onto himself. They held him, grounded him back down to Earth, let him know that he was _**_there_ **_._

_Steve felt his neck dip and his cheek press against willing warmth. A delicate, sweet scent melted in fever. Mrs. Shan's lilac bushes cut into his vision every time he craned down. A summer bloom; rare and sharply fragrant in a wilting heat._

_His lips felt swollen, his throat was far beyond dry, sweat dripped down his nose_—_no, not sweat...tears?_

_Was he crying? _

_He thought to sweep them away, but his hand caressed the beautiful, tanned face framed by dark locks_ _instead._

_Darren stared up at him with red, glistening eyes. Tears slid down his cheeks, mixing with Steve's. A small scratch lay just atop his left cheek. Three red barely there cuts turned rivers covered by the night and tall grass._

_Steve felt his mouth start in a babble. His thumb rolled over the injury, trying to soothe away whatever pain he caused Darren. He heard himself stutter out in pathetic cries "_ _A-ani miztaer, ani miztaer, bite ton nit lozn mir vider…!"_

_Then those hands caressed his face just like before. Darren croaked in such a broken genuine voice that broke Steve_ —

"I missed you," a rough laugh nearly brought him back.

His vision cracked in splitting images. Images stuttered between Darren sobbing on the ground beneath him and laughing in Steve's arms on the football field. After what felt like an eternity of watching dreams—_memories?_— Darren, _the real flesh and blood Darren in his arms, _rested his face on the side of Steve's head

"I missed this," the words ghosted over Steve's ear in a dripping heat, "you know that?"

A stir rolled through his groin. Dull pain etched through the bones of his right hand. His fingers flexed and soft, supple flesh sprang back.

Darren's thigh was molded to the inside of his palm.

The brunet fell heavy to the grass in a heap of confusion. "Damn, Steve," he gathered himself only enough to glance at the wrist strained over the blond's crotch. "Oh God, did you hurt your hand again?"

Steve, staring into his friend's concerned eyes and furrowed brow, ran with Darren's innocent stupidity. "Think I did," he half-groaned. "I'll swing by the nurse, get it checked up an'all." He beelined straight for the locker room entrance. Hard, searing hot flesh grazed his palm through nylon gym-shorts with each stride. Steve kept both wrists down in an attempt to hide his arousal behind pained groans and stiff, jerky movements. He made it past the throng of rugby-football players with barreling movements and death threats at any poor cunt too stupid to move.

Then a rough, familiar palm clapped him on the shoulder.

Hot Shot Shan closed the fucking gap. "Let me look at it, Steve," said Darren's warm voice, dripping in a kind of sweetness that left Steve wanting a _taste._

He saw Darren's hand travel down his arm and go for his hand. Steve jerked his whole body to the side, distancing himself from Darren's sweet voice and glassy eyes. "I-its fine, Dare," Steve tried to play it off. "Don't worry, the nurse'll ice it and I'll be good, probably."

"Just let me look, Steve. You're holding your wrist all funny, it might really be messed up, mate."

"Dare, stop worryin'. You grabbin' me isn't gonna fix anything so get off."

A heavy sigh and an eye roll left Steve jilted. "Stop being such a baby and let me help," Darren's fingers crept over his only means of concealment. "You're hurt, so drop the tough guy act and just—"

"I said get off me, mate! I ain't your fuckin' boyfriend, so piss off!" A hard shoulder check knocked Darren a good foot back.

The brunet stumbled back on his feet and nearly lost balance. Darren was more shocked than hurt, but the pain was apparent. His hand covered the young bruise; the flesh was already turning an angry red, soon to be purple.

But Steve was already gone. He cleared the distance of the field in quick strides and nearly took the gym door off its hinges. The metal sweep screamed in jutted scraps against the hallway floor; the grating cries echoed through the empty locker room. Frantic steps, hard cleats on tile, scrambled with Steve's erratic heartbeat and rapid breath. He had to steady himself against the lockers just to stay upright.

He couldn't _think, _not like this. He couldn't blame this on hormones or weed or alcohol or whatever other fucking lies he told himself. Something was _wrong._

_Deeply fucking wrong._

The dream wouldn't go away, these fractured memories wouldn't go away, _Darren's face wouldn't fucking go away! _Every time they touched, got close, tried to get back to some type of normality, Steve ruined it. His body burned, his mind went blank, and all he could fucking think about was that night—

"— that night?" Steve asked himself. He came to a dead halt in front of the men's showers. The lights of the open wet room flickered on, draping the teen in harsh, clinical white light. Lynx body spray and bleach cleaner stung at his nose. He could taste the chlorine stiff in the air. His right hand ached, the bandaged knuckles itched in a furious kind of phantom pain.

Steve recalled in slow, twisting patches just how much of one particular night he couldn't recall: the night he got Darren back.

The first thing he recalled was shagging Julia Evergreen and cumming on her tits. She didn't stay over, because Steve isn't that type of bloke, and left the blond to his own devices. Alone, and with nothing to preoccupy him, Steve drank and thought more and more about Darren. His best friend in the world, the only one who stood by him, the boy he protected at Cirque du Freak, the only reason he didn't chase Vur Horston, _the only fucking good thing in his life and he threw it away._

The last thing he recalled was walking out of his front door and yelling to his mum, who was long asleep by then, "I'm staying at Darren's tonight!" and slamming the door.

Then he woke up on Darren's couch. There was nothing in between— no real memories— only Annie Shan thirsting over him when he woke up bleary-eyed in the morning, and Darren's unreadable face.

Steve's mind fixated on that moment. How Darren didn't meet his eyes fully, how his fingers curled between locks of hair, how a subtle red overcame his cheeks, and how his soft voice held a note Steve couldn't place.

All the air rushed out of his lungs. His chest was caving in around his jack-rabbiting heart. He couldn't breathe.

Steve slumped onto the shower floor to catch his breath. But the slick, unforgiving tile gave him no reprieve. The realization left him reeling, and nothing could bring him back.

_"He lied to me."_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Anger Mismanagement

* * *

Steve could still feel sprays of ice water slick on his skin, but the cold shower didn't kill the burning inside his head. Instead, it compounded with the chill of Central London. His gym clothes and cleats couldn't protect him from the September freeze blowing over his shoulders. Darren's loaned school uniform sat crumpled in his gym bag like a memory he hoped to forget. Damp clung to his platinum hair and went frigid with winter's infantile wind. The chill rose his skin clear off his body and left him in near shivers. It would have been smart to layer up with Darren's slacks and school sweater, but Steve wasn't particularly concerned with survival at the moment.

Above the skyline of terrace houses and flats rising up from his street, the sky bled into dusk. Soft glows of light formed around the street lamps. In less than an hour, their offensive yellow hue would flicker through Steve's bedroom window. Sometimes, the clinical and stripped darkness was calming. He never had nightlights growing up, only street lamps. Steve would fall asleep to the flicker, watching for blips of shadows roaming in the night. As a child, he saw werewolves and vampires crouched past the street lights outside his house. He'd curl up in bed with a copy of _Dracula, _waiting for monsters to take him away.

But fresh memories of twitching lights and cloyingly sweet lilacs burned his senses down. It was impossible to feel chilled when his body ran a broiling flame through his blood.

Darren's face assaulted his brain in countless iterations. He was certain now that his dream from the previous night and the flashes he saw on the field were the same; memories torn apart by alcohol and lies.

_How could Darren lie to me? _That question spurred on so many others. Steve spiraled in a way he never had. Of all his friends, of all the people he knew and hurt, he trusted Darren with his life. So how could Darren lie to him? Especially about something like _that? _Was he afraid of losing Eric? Was Darren willing to lie, just to keep that disgusting pedophile around? What if Eric knew? What if Darren told him and that's why the ginger fuck-face hated his guts so much?

That must've been what happened, it explained everything so perfectly. The strange looks Eric flashed him, the way he felt Darren up and flaunted the brunet around Steve, _it was all to get a rise out of him. _And if Darren lied about that night, what else was he lying about?

_"We talk a lot about you." Darren had said through a haze of White Widow less than 24 hours prior. "I wasn't talking behind your back or making fun of you, you know I could _**_never _**_do that." _

The sentiment seemed so sincere and warm at the moment. Or, Steve remembered it that way. But now he recalled it differently. _Tittering welled up in Darren's throat. It bloomed over the haze and set Steve's blood boiling. What did Darren and Eric _**_really _**_talk about? _

What if they laughed at him on their sick little dates? What if they talked about all the little things Darren did to purposefully set him off? The shared drinks and blunts, the way Darren had clung onto him, how he rolled his hips when he walked and flexed his shoulders; _was it all just to _**_get _**_at me?! _

A sharp pain shot up Steve's right arm. He didn't have to look down to know that his break flared up. That creeping ache of gnarled flesh visited the teen regularly, like court visitation and drug screenings. Steve wanted to blame it on the cold seeping into his aching body. The way his nails dug bloody slivers into his palm dashed that hope.

Steve took deep, centering breaths to rein himself back down. On the third breath, both his hands unclenched. The left was fine, aside from thin cuts on his palm carved in by fingernails. The right hand, however, was dead rigid at his side. It couldn't relax without some mental and physical coaching from the blond. He massaged the palm with his good fingers in rough circles, rolling the pressure up from his wrist to the joint. Deep, measured groans vibrated his chest with every press. His muscles locked up at the pressure. It hurt like Hell trying to work an already broken hand back into a relaxed state, but Steve knew that if he left it alone the break would only get worse. Tension swelled all over his body in small cracks and pops from the bones re-aligning. But pain seemed to be the only thing to bring him back to his street.

The scent of lilacs faded with car exhaust in the after-work rush. Cruel, honey-dripped laughter rolled through his ears and out with autumn wind. Paper-worn fingers slipped through the cracks of his abused knuckles. If he didn't latch onto what was real—the cars sputtering back home on the streets, the brisk wind digging into his bones, the damp frosting over on his hair—he'd get lost in his head. Steve walked the rest of the way to his dingy terrace on measured countdowns and exhaled breaths.

Steve unlocked the front door as dark gray skies curled over the neighborhood. He stepped in and deposited his school bag, gym bag, wallet, and shoes, this time without interruption from lonely policemen. A buzz rolled over his hip in a rapid, violent staccato. Steve's hand twitched toward the noise automatically, and he gritted his teeth, knowing exactly who it was.

'Darren' flashed over his screen like all his shame and rage concentrated into a single point. Steve declined the call on the fourth ring, nearly breaking his phone again with all the force he slammed into the key. This was the third time Darren had called in the last hour and a half. Several texts were in company. None of them were excessively long, keeping to choppy, two-word-phrases like, _'You okay?' _and _'You arsehole.' _

Steve was seething. _I'm the arsehole?! Least I'm not a bloody liar._

After declining the call, he knew Darren wouldn't try again. Steve was ever thankful for his friend's non-prying ways. But thinking about it only sent his head into the red zone.

He ascended up the stairs with every intention to hole himself up and sleep straight through both Friday and the weekend. He didn't want to think about Darren, how he'd deal with Darren, or about what him and Darren fucking did that night.

Steve looked down over the railing into the pitiful living room. His mum was nestled into the arm of their two-seater couch. She faded right into the dark, checkered fabric and large throw pillows. Her sandy hair contrasted with the aged olive color. Her small hands held a cup of tea full of bright, herbal scents. The TV bounced from reruns of _The Naked Chef _to _Rosemary and Thyme_. She was so small, so quiet, that Steve hardly noticed her from the stairs.

"S-Stephen?" Her little voice still found its way to him. She raised from the couch and shut off the TV in jittered movements. She followed him up the stairs with light steps, coming up to the landing before Steve opened his bedroom door. "Can we—I need to talk with you for a minute." His mum wasn't asking, she was _preparing _to talk to him. _Parents don't ask, they tell, _or at least that's how Mrs. Fairfield put it. And if his mum was implementing that lesson now, then she probably wanted to talk. Like, really _talk. _

Steve, his fingers already on the handle, contemplated even responding. That would have been terrible, shutting the door on his mum like that, but he couldn't deal with anything else. His mood was shot to hell, he was cold and pained, and the only thing he wanted to do was sleep and forget the state of his life for a few fucking hours.

"Later, alright?" Steve didn't look back at her. He trained his eyes on the turning knob and the comfort of a closed door. "I wanna be alone for a bit, that's all—"

The words died on his tongue. A stark, white patch on the wall stared at him from above his mattress.

Years of cigar smoke from family members long-buried (Feter Hiram and Bubbe Dinah) had marred every wall of the house with a faint, eggy yellow. For a moment, a single naive moment, Steve thought he was only witnessing the insides of the drywall bloom past the nicotine stains. The hole he crashed through the wall with his cellphone must've revealed the once pristine drywall underneath, right?

But there wasn't a hole anymore. The wall was complete and smooth; there wasn't a hole because someone had patched it up.

Steve turned on his heel, but his mother was already behind him.

She had tucked the sandy hair behind her ears, leaving her curled bangs to frame a worried though determined face.

"You were in my room?!" Steve walked up to the patch, but his eyes never left his mother's. The chalky scent of gypsum filler stuck inside his nose. "What about privacy and personal space and all that bullshit?!"

"Stephen, lower your voice, please." She stepped past the threshold of Steve's bedroom, a hand up and extended in a calm fashion. But when Steve recoiled at the sight, she folded them together atop her chest. A soft smile quirked at her lips, but her light brows knitted themselves fraught with concern. "I know you're upset, and I didn't mean to intrude on your space or anything, I just wanted to fix the wall."

"You couldn't wait till I got back? I could have done it if you gave me some time or warned me."

"With what happened last night, I got so worried. That's all, love. I wanted to fix it up before you got home."

"Alright, wall's fixed, you can leave now."

"Well, maybe we should talk about what happened last night, Stephen."

"There's nothing to talk about! I got angry. I threw my fucking phone. That's it."

His mother lowered her gaze. Her hands folded themselves atop her chest, playing with the fabric of her boatneck and house sweater. Those brown eyes darted to the other wall only briefly.

Steve followed the line to the wall directly over his desk. Where his Elle Macpherson poster hung, now slightly askew. He felt the red cloud over his mind again. "Did you take down my fucking poster, too?" He strode to his desk and ripped it down to reveal another fresh patch. "What the hell?! Do you go snooping through my shit now, is that what this is?"

"No, no love, it fell when I was patchin' up the wall an' I-"

With an eye-roll and an exaggerated huff, Steve tossed his arms in the air. "Oh, that's fucking convenient." He tapped the fresh patch with his knuckles, detesting the bone dry texture.

"Stephen, don't talk to me that way," her voice, though trembling, took a stern edge. "Is that how you broke your hand? You told me it was from your aggression therapy, but now I see two separate holes in the drywall and you are very defensive about them."

"I'm defensive because you're in my fucking room taking shit down and going through my things! Fercockt, what's so hard to understand?"

She took a deep breath, her hands moving up from her chest to the bridge of her forehead. Sarah Leonard, in the sternest voice she could muster, asked: "Stephen, how did that hole get behind your poster?"

Steve felt that rebellious vein surge up. His mother was never a stern woman by any means, but to see her stomp down her own meekness flared something within him.

But then he saw her face. Her voice hid a lot, like the quiver of her lip and the nervous shake to her finger. And maybe that's why their screaming matches through closed doors and the upstairs's floorboards never got them anywhere. If Steve had seen his mother like he was seeing her now, when he was being a right shit at his tender ages, maybe they wouldn't be here. If Steve had seen the terrified look in his mum's eyes, how her face went taut and her lips shivered on a constant stream of placative phrases, maybe he would have realized how scared she was.

He couldn't lie. Not now.

"Please, just be honest with me. I know we haven't been the most truthful with each other, and I know you're very upset right now, but we have to try. Please, bubala, just be honest with me."

That dreaded 'bubala.' Rebecca practically threw it away with how often she used the endearment on his half-brother. But his mum was never one to toss it lightly. 'Bubala' meant something visceral and deep to his mother. And maybe it was that conviction that had Steve sighing in defeat.

"One's from last night," he began. "I lost my temper and threw my phone, but you already knew that. The other one..." Steve looked to the hole and thought of Darren. He thought of him in the backseat of that Honda Civic, where Steve sat not too long ago. He thought of Darren underneath Eric, the brunet's fingers clenching the polyester seats. He thought of Darren's sweet, pitched whines in that Irish timbre fogging up the car windows. Eric's bloody, beaten face collided with the thoughts. His nose was smashed into a jagged mass atop his face, his breathing labored and wet with the blood draining down his throat.

Steve's knuckles twitched at the thought. "I got angry, I guess."

His mum nodded. Her eyes searched both the patches and Steve saw her hands unclasp in thought. "Was it, both the holes I mean, because of that young lady you had up here last night? Are you two, um-" Steve watched his mother search for the right words, ones that wouldn't skirt him the wrong way. "-serious...?"

"No, we're just friends." _Well, fuckbuddies, and maybe not anymore after what happened. _"And only one of them is because of her, and it wasn't her fault. We got into a spat, kinda, over Darren, and I lost it, but I never threw it _at _her, I just…" He thought back to it, and if Julia wasn't already on the ground looking for her bra it would have gone right through her skull.

Maybe he _did _throw it at her.

"Threw it at her," she sounded lost for words. "Were you trying to hurt her, Stephen?" Her face, already terrified, took a stark turn. It reminded Steve of Julia's cowering body on the ground with flecks of drywall in her hair.

"I didn't fucking touch her, I didn't even _think _about it, alright? She didn't get hurt, sure she was scared, but-"

"Stephen, I don't think you realize how serious this is," she rubbed her hands over her forehead, a nervous tick she acquired from Steve's younger years when he'd throw those screaming-on-the-floor-at-Sainsbury's tantrums and throw torn open boxes of Coco Pops at passersby. Sarah Leonard would shadow the blond terror with her hands wrought tight around her head to quell the inevitable migraines. "You could've hit her on accident, she could've pressed charges if you seriously hurt her and then—"

"Then I'd be just like dad, right?"

Ms. Leonard went silent. She bulked, her words tepid and dragged down by an unseen weight. "No, no love… I didn't mean-"

"But you were thinking it, right?" She had to be thinking that. Steve was the spitting image of his dad. The hole he left might as well be Steve's shadow; those broad shoulders, that staggering frame, the blunt knuckles, the searing ire. It was all bloodborne—the build, the muscle, the rage, the_ cruelty_.

"No, Stephen," she went to her son's side, getting a grip on his shoulder this time. "I've never thought of you like that, I'm just worried for you. Your hand is broken and your anger issues seem to be getting worse, not better." Sarah touched her son's cheek, trying to turn his eyes to look at her properly.

Steve snapped his head away. He couldn't look at her face, not when she held such a fretful gaze. She was _afraid _of him. _Why is she trying so hard? _

"You're not him, love. When you say you didn't hurt that girl, I believe you, okay?"

_That's a fucking lie. _

"Do we need to try different therapy or retake those mindful aggression courses? What about your breathing techniques or—"

"That doesn't work all the time, alright? I lost my temper and fucked up the wall. No one got hurt—"

"Love, _you _got hurt," Sarah brought her son's broken hand in front of his face. "Don't you see that?"

Steve swiped his hand, letting it fall at his side before backing away, as far away as he could, from his mother. "What the fuck do you care." The words marred up what was left of Steve's kindness.

Her face fell. "Stephen—"

"No, seriously, what the fuck do you care?"

"Stephen, you're my son, I just wanna help you," She stepped towards him with open arms. But she still looked scared. So scared that her lips and arms shook as she stepped closer to the reflection of her abusive ex-husband.

"Stop fuckin' lyin' to me!" Steve pushed her arms away. "You wanna help?! Then leave. I was fine without you for years, I don't need a fucking alcoholic mum pretending to give a shit. You can't _fuckin' OD_ and then just decide to be my mum again, you can't make up for 17 fucking years of not loving me and not being there!" His voice brought the room down. Steve couldn't stand her face, her voice, her fucking presence anymore. His face felt hot, he couldn't hear his own breath past his raging blood, and he wondered if this is how livid his father used to get. "Just fuck off and leave me alone."

A tear escaped his mother's eye. Steve saw it spill over her cheek before she swiped it away with a lithe finger. "Stephen, I—"

"I said fuck off!" His broken hand collided with the wall. A horrendous sound clapped through the house and shook his old stake collection off the shelves. Wooden splinters scattered over the floor at his feet. His hand screamed from the impact. It was impossible not to shout from the pain, but that only fueled his volume and rage.

Steve saw his mum begin to rush to his side, concern and fear slipping past her thin lips in her mother tongue.

"Please," the crack of Steve's voice wrapped around the room, "leave me alone." He didn't look at his mum. His eyes were trained on the wall and his hand was still shaking atop its face. But he heard her feet shuffle on the carpet, stepping past two-inch long splinters in a delicate padding. Gently, her hand touched Steve's shoulder. He shrugged his body away at the contact in languished movements. He was too tired to put up a fight anymore.

In a single movement, almost too fast and too jarring for Steve to register what happened, she kissed the top of his hair. The remnants of a tear rolled down her chin and barely within his sight.

He looked up not a second later and she was gone without another word. The door was closed, and finally, Steve had what he wanted: He was alone.

Steve fell back onto his mattress in a heap. His abused hand burned. The wall wasn't busted, but he slammed it with enough force to set the break alight with fresh pain. But he didn't care. Steve would break it again a month, a year, a decade from now anyway.

He thought of his mother's tears, Darren's crying face, _the lies, _and then of all the shit he's done in his life to deserve those looks of pain. Darren lied to him. And he hated him for it, he really did. But all he wanted to do was see him again. He thought of when they were kids, young and wholly dependent on one another. Co-dependent wasn't even on their radar, they were in the big leagues now in a whole other planar existence of dependency. _Dry-humping your best friend on his mum's garden, what the fuck even is that? _

He rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow. His hands tore at the case and he screamed for everything he was worth. He pressed the softness deeper and deeper into his face with suffocating force. It started off in short, controlled shouts. He tried emptying everything out. Darren, his mum and dad, the rage, but it kept coming. Even when it felt like he couldn't breathe, and his voice was raw and struggling to produce anything, Steve kept screaming. He screamed till they turned into raw, scraping sobs in his throat, till they smashed through his teeth and destroyed everything in their wake, till the grip on his pillow bore into his skull and curled finger-shaped bruises along his crown, till his vision turned to flashes of furniture flying across the room, and tears clouded his eyes, and his fists flew blind at shadows that weren't even there.

But it wasn't enough.

Steve sat on the ground where his mattress once laid. His eyes couldn't focus anywhere, aside from the scorched carpet right in his peripheral— courtesy of 'indoor fireworks' on Bonfire Night two years back. Steve shifted his mattress up a foot and his mum never knew a damn thing about it. But the charred patch was the least of his worries.

Shards of glass from a broken desk lamp glinted through the fibers of his carpet. Streetlight poured in through the windows, stripping the night of all-natural starlight and moonlight. The synthetic flicker danced off the shards, scattering harsh rays all over this upheaved Hell.

His room was laid to waste in utter chaos. The desk was toppled over on its side, tangled up with the lamp cord. The desk chair was caught up in the mass, too, suspended on a single wheel in the tensile strength of the cord and desk. The bookshelf and all its contents were scattered on the carpet. His bed was flipped up and slanted in the corner, drooping and sagging from its own weight. _Treatise on the Apparitions of Spirits and on Vampires _laid broken underneath the window with the spine cracked and the cover half torn. Posters of _Black Sabbath _and _An American Werewolf in London _littered his floor, ripped up and mixed with his prized collection of history books and comics. Feter Hiram, his mum's uncle, had given Steve most of those World War II books because he lived it. Before Hiram was moved to hospice, he'd tell Steve and Darren war stories over gefilte fish during Passover. Steve, eight at the time, marveled at the gore and intensity of war while Darren fell under Hiram's awe-inspiring tales.

Now, empty from his rage, he couldn't recall half the terror he inflicted on his room. He remembered all of it physically, he watched his hands chuck his mattress and bookshelf across the room, but he couldn't recall the thoughts behind it all.

He just _did _it.

Steve looked to his great uncle's favorite history book. _Die Kunst des Krieges _was laid open, the pages crumpled and bent to one side. As a Yiddish speaker, Steve could parse through the German like a child cutting up their own steak for the first time. It wasn't pretty, but he could get through it. He and Darren would huddle over that book some nights as children, curled up under Steve's thick blankets with flashlights in hand—not for the history on the Panzerfaust and Steve's terrible translations, but for Feter Hiram's notes scrawled out in the margins. There would be whole stories of soldiers trampling Nazis with two-tonne tanks, heads getting nearly decapitated with state-of-the-art weaponry, mustard gas making the enemies' brains bleed out through their noses in chunks.

Steve loved that book. Now it was nearly ruined and crushed by his own doing.

Steve flipped open his Nokia, which somehow had maintained a charge through the hell it had been through. It was only 10:37 P.M., but Steve felt like he'd been through months of his life. He couldn't sleep here tonight. He could tidy up, sure; get his desk and bookshelf standing again, re-arrange his favorite comics and books, flip the mattress back down, and call it a night. But he would still _be _here tonight.

The fresh drywall stared at him in a strange, lopsided gaze. With the white eyes of his home squarely on him, Steve shucked off his clothes and slipped on an old _Judas Priest _shirt and sweatpants to sleep on the couch. He usually slept in the buff with his space heater cranked on full, but his mum had seen his cock one too many times. He didn't think anything could properly ready a parent to see their baby boy's little mekki beast up into an eight-inch, veiny schlong whipped out like an anaconda in the dense jungle. Steve decided to spare them both some awkward trauma.

He creaked the door open slowly, not wanting to wake his mum or let his presence be known if she happened to still be awake. But something caught his eye. Drenched in the light from outside his window, Steve saw a small dish left at his door. It was a small, ornate clay bowl with bluefish on it—a piece from Bubbe Dinah's set that she brought over from Germany. Plastic wrap covered it, and on top laid a fork with a small note stuck on.

Steve crouched down for a better look, but he already knew what it was. Kugel—egg-noodle casserole with a fuck ton of cream cheese and butter and nutmeg and everything else that's horrible for his abs but so good for his mum use to only make it on the rare Shabbat when she wasn't completely trashed on wine or gin. Now, it was her go-to quick dinner; Steve's, too.

Steve plucked the note.

_'Your favorite.' _

Something visceral stirred in Steve's chest. He remembered the way she said 'bubala,' how she kissed the top of his head—how frightened she looked. Steve sat with his back to the door and the dish tucked towards his heart. He spooned the rich noodles down his dry throat. It tasted like Bubbe Dinah's cottage, like Feter Hiram's burnt cigars, and like the first Hanukah Darren spent at his house. Steve felt a wetness creep down his cheeks, riveting down to his lips and chin. Steve swiped them away as fast as they formed and refused to think about it any longer. Instead, he slid his feet across the rough carpet floor to stand. With the glazed crockery at his chest, Steve made his way down the stairs in measured steps.

His mum had fallen asleep on the couch to dancing street lamps and late-night news. Neon blue shadows flicked over their living room, bleaching the olive fabric and rose-touched skin of Ms. Leonard's face with a synthetic pallor. Steve crossed the dark of the staircase and stood at the back of the couch. A teacup and an empty dish imposed inescapable voids into the kitchen from the coffee table. They rose over him, overtook his descending shadow, and together loomed high into the ceiling over his family home.

Ms. Leonard usually slept on the couch after a big fight. Steve never knew why, though he assumed it was out of habit. They'd blow up at each other, he'd tear up his hands on drywall and wooden doors and she'd destroy her liver with five quid bottles of wine. She would always be too drunk to make it back to her room, so the couch was her bed most nights. The alcohol couldn't stick around, but late-night snuggles with the couch arm and embroidered throw pillows did.

Steve drifted next to his mother, the shadows crawling down from high to merge into the couch and settle against her hip. Thick blankets covered most of his mum from sight. Steve, though, was well-acquainted with the vaguely human lump morphed into the couch.

"Mum…" he patted her shoulder, but she only stirred and bunched the fabric over her chest.

As gently as he could, Steve roused his mother awake. Old cushions sagged and heaved under her weight in a groggy sigh. Steve saw her hair first. It frizzled over the blankets in a heap of silver and sandy blonde. Sleep colored her face along with a fleshy, embroidery imprinted on her cheek. But even fresh from those nightly clutches, Sarah Leonard reached out for her son.

Soft, familiar pads ran along his stubble before settling atop his shoulder. His mum came back down, grounding herself by the touch.

"Everything alright, love?" Her voice was thick with sleep and East London Hasidism. His mum always had a bit of an accent, something most took for a regional difference between Central and East London. But when she used to drink, slurring her speech from sleep or gin, or sometimes became especially lively, that heavy way she slid her consonants together popped.

"I'm alright," Steve gave her hand a firm squeeze. "Thanks for dinner."

She hummed a drowsy welcome in her mother's tongue and then took to laying against her son's broad shoulders and thick arm. "You sounded upset, up in your room…"

Steve shifted, unsure of how to respond to that and navigate the physicality of the moment.

"Are you hurt or anything? Did you re-break your hand or…?"

Steve shook his head and displayed his relatively unscathed arms as proof. "One busted hand's enough for me. And I mainly punched soft things this time."

"That's progress, yeah?"

Steve shrugged with a tepid nod. Anger issues and alcoholism were alike in many ways, but 'progress' was a touchy subject. To his mum, there were no 'set-backs,' only relapses. If she drank even a little bit on a holiday or when she went out, everything could come spiraling down and land dead at her feet. Every day without a drink was meaningful to her. But it wasn't the same for Steve.

"Wanna get to bed?" Steve asked after a beat of silence. "It's pretty late - for you at least."

"I'm fine where I am, love."

Steve nodded and remained silent. He let his mother curl at his side and have her fill of mother-son time.

"We need to talk about all that, y'know…" she breathed out in the gentlest way Steve had ever known.

"Yeah," he shifted on the couch, baring his lower-back against the armrest to properly look at his mother. "I know...and I know I, uh… I got _heated _and I'm sorry for, y'know, what I said, and did."

Steve wasn't expecting a hug. But his mum collapsed into his shoulders at those words in a rushed embrace. This time, Steve hugged his mum back. He squeezed her tightly, burying his face in her neck and fly-away hairs. They hadn't hugged, really embraced, since Steve was a young child and his dad was still around.

"Thank you for saying that, love," her voice was muffled by Steve's shoulder. "And I'm sorry for getting in your space like that, I was so worried after last night an' I just—" she stopped herself, pulling away from her son with a hand catching the tears. "I just don't know what to do sometimes."

Steve suppressed a wry giggle. He didn't know what to do with himself half the fucking time, he couldn't imagine trying to _parent _his arse.

"But I should probably ground you… Take April to heart about enforcing rules for respect and communication."

"Seems fair, though I don't think taking my phone away will do anything."

"I thought the same," said his mum through a grin. "So, instead, I thought you would come home after school and therapy and help me 'round the house. Y'know, cooking and cleaning and doing your own laundry. You're almost in university, it's time you learn to take care of yourself a little."

"Oh, just take my shit away, I'd much rather do this traditional."

"And _that's _why it's a great punishment!"

"What's your punishment, then? For going into my room and invading my privacy and all that?"

"Well, dealing with you, obviously."

Steve couldn't curb his laughter in time and sputtered, "Oi! You cheeky woman!" To see his mum, his timid, quiet, devout Jewish mum sling back that sass with such vigor got him good. Maybe _that's _where he got it from…

His mum laughed with him in light, airy chuckles that bounced her fingertips atop her lips. But then the laughter petered out. She looked to her son, that concerned visage plastering her face again. "What got you so angry today?"

Steve laughed again, but it turned dry and painful in his throat. "Everything."

Sarah gave a click of her tongue, gripping her son's good hand in her own. Her eyes seemingly followed the flashing screen.

Steve only listened mildly. He felt himself drift off, awakened only by his mother's small voice echoing in his head.

"I don't like that girl…"

"Julia?" Steve drudged up the name in a groggy whisper. He never knew where his mum's mind was half the time, but like most mother's it zeroed in on the other women in his life. "Yeah, Mrs. Shan doesn't like her either," he recounted as sleep winked off his eyes. "Is it 'cause she's a shiksa?" Steve half-joked.

"No, no," her hands smoothed over the flesh of her son's palm. "I don't care about that. You know, your father asked me out because he thought I was a shiksa." She gave a wry laugh and shook her head. "I just want you to find someone who's good to you. She seems a little immature, especially how she talks about Darren …"

"You heard that?"

"She was muttering something awful on her way out the door, I had half a mind to give her a talking to about gossip…"

"Is that why you don't like Jules?"

"Darren's a nice boy, and he's so good for you," Sarah gave a heavy yawn, gripping her son's hand tight and resting her head on Steve's shoulder. "I remember how upset you were when the two of you had that falling out. God, if George wasn't lookin' out for you I don't know what would've happened…"

Steve hummed an agreed tone. He still didn't know how he ended up in Crawley's care that night. But he was certain he wouldn't have made it home, maybe ever, if Crawley didn't find him. "So, you don't care that he's...uh, well, into guys or anthin'?"

Her sandy hair rolled over Steve's shoulder in a light shake. "No," he felt her smile through his band shirt. "And you and that nafka shouldn't either."

Steve couldn't help but laugh at that one. _Nafka. _God, his mum could dish it out if she wanted too. And Julia… well, Steve couldn't bring himself to agree wholly. The scent of freshly cracked drywall and her screams circled through his head in the worst iterations.

"Am I… like him?"

"No, no, god no, Stephen," said his mum in a single breath. "I didn't mean it like that. You're nothing like your father."

"What if I did hit her?" Steve laid his neck on the back of the couch and watched the bleached tones of static eat away at the shadows above. Chattering voices on the tube rolled over him, a wall of white noise awakening his inner insomniac. "I didn't care if I hurt her or not, I just wanted her to leave. And Darren… I said way worse shit to him _to his face _then Julia ever did behind his back…"

His mum got quiet. The TV flickered across her face in blank flashes that masked her thoughts."Do you remember much from then?" She began slowly. "When you were a baby and your father and me were still together?"

Steve gave a weak nod, though, honestly, he couldn't remember much of anything. But he knew it was bad—it had to be bad. The memory was so foggy, yet so crisp. His father had picked him up from daycare, and they sang along to _The Sex Pistols _all the way home in his ancient Ford Cortina. Steve kicked his feet to the beat (terribly) in his car seat. He tried matching his father's lips in the rearview mirror, but babbling and mashing the words with his sodden thumb. Before Steve could piece the events together, his mum and dad were screaming at each other. Terrible, ear-shattering screaming that left him crying in the living room. In-between hiccups, Steve heard his mom's pained groans. Her shaky breaths paused all life. Then everything roared back into sensory overload with her shrieks crawling up from the back room. Gurgled, stuttered gasps interrupted the screams, along with his father's ripping voice. Steve could never remember his father as an angry man, even now. He was an arsehole who didn't give a shit about his firstborn, but he wasn't _angry. _Not like Steve—

"You know he choked me once a week towards the end there."

—_ or _maybe _exactly _like Steve. He tried to push down memories of his own violence. _Darren coughed and gagged on the ground. Steve, unsure of why he just did what he did, collapsed beside Darren and ran shaky fingers through his hair. He was trying to comfort him. Really, that's all he wanted to do _— _help out his best mate. But Darren shrank away, jerking his head and shoulder out of reach. _

"I wore scarves and turtlenecks in the summer. Everyone thought I had some kind of glandular problem, and I was so relieved when no one pried. I didn't want anyone to think how horrible of a wife I was, how terrible I was for forcing my husband to get so livid with me. I knew then how silly that was, but your father was such a nice man when he wasn't angry. I thought I could handle it, that it would all get better sooner or later, maybe after the semester ended and he wasn't so stressed with work. But then… then he hurt you.

"You were so young, I thank God every day that you don't remember. He hit your little head with a hairbrush, probably frustrated with all the tangles, but you didn't wail or cry. You just looked so defeated and ashamed. I didn't know babies could feel something like that so deeply. You looked like you thought you deserved it. I told him to get out. I could deal with him hurting me, cheating on me, even getting another woman pregnant, but not hurting my boy."

Steve wrapped an arm around his mum's shoulders as she drifted back to sleep. That'd taken up whatever kept her going, and frankly, Steve felt the same. He didn't have the mental strength to get up and return to his room. He found himself lulled to sleep by his mum's breath and heartbeat, and the ever-growing static of the TV. Right before he drifted, when Steve was lucid enough to think but not enough to parse reality, he saw an image of a young man flash over the screen. He was baby-faced, fit, and appeared to be on some kind of university swim team. Steve couldn't figure it; the TV kept flipping between photos of the guy and some kind of quad. People gathered around what Steve recognized to be Bristol Cathedral on College Green. A smattering of flowers laid across the steps; university-aged kids and professors sobbed in shot of grainy cameras; dying autumn winds snapped in bitter strokes over the Bristol night.

Steve could only make out a single phrase before sleep claimed him once more:

_"... it has been confirmed that the fourth victim was burned alive as well." _

Cooking schmaltz wafted through the air in crisp, savory waves. Steve awoke, his neck strained over the couch arm and his right leg hung over the back. His nose perked at the scent, no doubt a batch of latkes for breakfast.

Though autumn had crossed the UK officially with the end of September, Steve was hard-pressed to believe that. White-blond strands stuck to the back of his neck in sweaty clumps. He tried swallowing his own spit, but it caught in the middle of his dry throat. He rushed the impending gags down with a cup of tea left overnight on the coffee table. It was cold and far too bitter now, but his rough awakening and groggy self didn't give a shit.

The only thing to distract from the fire dancing atop his flesh was the familiar chatter filling the kitchen. His mother's laughter mixed with another's. Full, jovial howls and giggles raised over the crackle of frying oil.

"Come on lad," Officer Crawley jingled the keys to his cruiser over Steve's head before the teen could even groan. "Let's see if you can avoid a detention for skiving off yesterday, ey?"

George Crawley listened to football over the radio. He'd wind himself up as the announcers went kick for kick, holler every time they made an impressive play, and sling loose verbal bullets when the ref gave John Terry a yellow card. Being an East London native and avid lover of Chelsea, Steve sat through more than a handful of long car rides to Crawley's love-struck prattling for Terry.

The football match flipped to static. Crawley huffed out cigarette smoke with a look of utter defeat. "Ref's a fuckin' mug, I tell ya'." The radio cut through channels before rolling over to a news station. The anchor repeated what Steve heard last night in his half-awakened state. "_ Johnathan Harris St. Claire, 22 years of age, a Biochemistry student at Bristol University, is the fourth confirmed victim of these heinous attacks."_

"You know anything about that?" Steve asked.

"The arsonist murders? You know I don't work homicide, I'm too busy lookin' after you and keepin' you outta trouble for your poor mum."

"Come on, you must've heard something, not even your pig buddies keep you in the loop?"

"Besides college boys, we don't know much. Some of the guys think it has something to do with the freak show that rolled into town, but they're just puttin' blame on gypsies." He paused, piecing things together. "Doesn't yer dad teach at Bristol?"

"Yup, but I doubt he knew the kid. The university's huge, and he has pretty niche classes."

"World War II…?"

"Weaponry and Psychology of German Forces during World War II."

"Damn, what 'appened to just 'History'?"

"Just 'History' doesn't get tenure."

"Hmm, I still think it's a strange connection—the freaks an'all. The first case was maybe six, seven months ago. The freak show hasn't been here nearly that long…"

"I mean, weird things follow freak shows…"

"Ey, didn't you an' yer friend get into some trouble at that circus a few years back?"

"Kinda, we were someplace we weren't supposed to be and got the piss scared outta us. It's actually his, uh, his boyfriend that got us all tickets. He's a uni kid…"

"Well, he should be careful then. This is the fourth case, and from what homicide says there's no real cycle or huntin' ground besides colleges."

"Make my life easier if he burned to a fuckin' crisp…"

"Yer, uh…" He paused. "Yer mum mentioned you and Darren had some trouble recently? Aythin' to do with his beau?"

Steve grumbled in reply.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, lad. I had lots of good mates in school and uni, but they all got birds that kept'em on short chains. Now, I don't know about the gay thing but-"

"Is this your version of a pep talk?"

"Oh shove it, I'm tryin' here. Don't be angry with him, alright? He's up in his own little world right now and thinks this bloke's the best thing since jaffa cakes. But he's gonna move on, that's what happens in these young blokes. They see something they like, they go for it, they have it for a bit, then they see something else. _You _gotta be there," he takes a hand off the steering wheel to point a fat finger Steve's way, "to pick up the pieces and help'em get back up an' at it. And I know you must be mad at him right now, leaving you for some bloke. And you can be angry. Be angry, trash your room, scream into the air like nobody gives a damn because nobody does. And once you've gotten it all out, go talk to your mate and apologize."

"But what if I don't get it all out? What if I'm still angry?"

"You'll get it out, lad."

"But wha—"

"You'll get it out, Steve, give it time."

Steve flipped open his phone. Darren hadn't texted or called since yesterday. Steve didn't blame him; the blond wasn't the greatest guy for conversation when the mood soured him. His fingers stilled over the keys. Steve wondered if he should call, text, or just wait till he saw Darren at school. The thought of Darren's voice sent shivers up his back. That clipped, metered way he talked when he was angry; how he smashed his words together in a melted Irish accent when he felt embarrassed; how he barely breathed and his lips vibrated when he talked about spiders or _Spawn. _

Steve typed out a message then deleted it. He typed another message, then deleted it. He then typed out a third message destined for the same fate. Finally, he clicked away ten simple words. "Hey, I'm sorry. Can we talk next Friday? Your house."

The rest of the drive elapsed. Some kids gave him strange, fearful look as he stepped out of the cruiser. Crawley waved him goodbye, flipping on his sirens to curb the traffic once more.

When first period rolled around, and Darren didn't speak to him, Steve gave himself up to another three months of silence. But as he left class, checking his phone for something, a little message stared at him from the screen. It was sent the moment class began.

Steve smiled unknowingly at the one-word reply: _"Sure."_


	7. Chapter 7: Collateral Intimacy

"Put some effort in, Jones," Steve snapped his left fist in Death's Triangle: gut, shoulder, head—_ thwack, thwack, thwack _—and connected every hit. The flurry of south-side jabs put Tommy Jones to the ropes.

"You're hand's still broken, man," Tommy barely got the words out. His lips were set in a rigid grimace that only tightened with each hit. He kept his guard up despite the shots, but his arms lagged under the weight of his bruised, sweaty shoulders.

"And I'm _still _wearing you out," Steve said. Beads of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, and his right hand ached from holding itself up and feigning protection. But seeing the great Tommy Jones run ragged spurred the Leopard into a frenzy. "Come on! I thought your dad owned this fuckin' ring?"

Milton Jones, Tommy's father, opened Left Hook Boxing Gym six years ago after his stock in Weatherford doubled in the late '90s. The home-grown family gym blossomed on the corner of St. Albany street in the midst of Angel Station foot traffic. A mere ten-minute walk from the station, Left Hook was the go-to gym for high-stress businessmen and travelers. That one-room building with drab concrete walls, no AC, and ritual knifings at the pub across the way sprawled into an open gymnasium where the likes of Ricky 'Hitman' Hatton and other greats made their glorious rounds. Even now as Steve and Tommy practiced novice pot-shots in one of the smaller rings, trained professionals and up-and-coming boxers duked it out center stage. Light cheers erupted around the prime stage every time a hit landed only for the weighted thud of leather beating a meaty shoulder to echo back.

Steve heard the clamor and bustle when they first walked in. He got a glimpse of a newbie known well in the circuit, Luke Campbell, laying deft cross-ups to an invisible opponent. The power, the showmanship — the _admiration. _He played it up for the crowd; over-extending his jabs to play up those cut forearms and his flawless technique. On-lookers and fanboys creamed their pants just standing in the splash zone.

Beautiful sight, really.

And it was all because of Milt's fanaticism.

Steve had never met anyone more impassioned and enthralled by a sport than Tommy's father. He remembered getting roped into all sorts of sparring matches and lessons whenever Tommy invited them to the gym on the occasional weekend or holiday. At first, it was fun—lots of fuckin' fun. Punching his friends as hard as he could with a boxing glove, cataloging his bruises like war trophies, practicing his jabs on the older kids who skipped out of their bets.

But Milt was all about 'form' and 'technique' and 'sportsmanship'—_bunch of nonsense that is _—and, naturally, cared the least for Steve out of his son's friends. The Leopard's wild childhood, single-parent status, brushes with youth courts, and his painfully obvious German-Jewish roots ruffled the stocky man's Welsh morals. He didn't _visibly _bristle when the blond showed up, but it was damn close Steve recalled.

"I'm not clocking a cripple, Leonard," Tommy said only to give the taller teen's shoulder a love tap.

_Eh, but at least Milt's son was a nicer guy. _

_Too nice. _

"Really now?" A chuckle seeped past Steve's sneer in childish cackles. Again, Tommy's a nice guy. _And that's why it's so much fun breaking him. _"And here I thought Tom Rutherford Jones was all about equality—!" A deadly hook snapped at Tommy's nose in reply, bending the cartilage before laying the siege on his left ear.

Tommy crouched back, two-stepping to Steve's right in staggered lurches. He kept his hands up now. Attempts to guard came too late in the wake of his swollen cheek and bruised nose.

"Not so grand and proper out the goalie pen, are we?" Steve landed hit after hit in cackling arrogance. He took potshots at Tommy's midsection and relished the onslaught in near-religious zeal. Guttural groans with every hit, the strain of his tendons, molding muscles and bones to his fist, the acrid scent of sweat mixing with fresh blood, the haze of war. Steve wondered why he didn't just enlist now; _Give'em an assault weapon and let the beast loose! _

But Jones was a stout and hardy man. He took each shot in stride and countered what he could. Steve might've been faster, but Tommy was efficient. He made every single punch and block count; while Steve became fervent and lost sight of the outcome, _winning, _for the effects, _beating someone down bloody, _Jones was a devout sportsman. He laid every hit with the intent of ending the match.

Steve's bloodlust made him lose sight of that very goal. He got cocky; he overreached himself and underestimated his opponent. Steve went in with an overhand punch, aiming straight for the right side of Jones' skull.

But Jones went low. He ducked the strike like nothing and slammed right into Steve's core with a solid hit. Jones sent Steve sliding on his heels into the ropes.

Friction from the ropes burned up the blond's naked spine in a tight line of fire, and his stomach nearly split under spasming abdominals. Steve didn't have time to contemplate an aching gut as Jones swung again in a tight, focused arc. Jerking to the right, he missed Tommy's killshot by a mere inch.

Jones gave his all in that swing. It left him prone, his body bent vulnerably, and his hands in the offensive.

Steve took it. He went to lay the kill heavy on an overhand punch while Tommy's head hung low. It should've been clean; a swift, dead-on hit to the side of the head would have put the football star out of commission.

But Steve just couldn't shut the hell up. "Tommy Jones: Maniac on the field, bitch in the ring," he said right before he could make contact.

_And wasn't that the damn rub. _

Like the hand of God, a deafening clap rang through the gym. In a resounding snap, Jones laid a brutal cross-up to Steve's chin.

Guarding was futile. His left hand knocked with a solid _thump _into his nose, leaving him dazed and his right hand hanging just below his face.

Jones took the chance and struck again. An uppercut popped Steve's chin once more, catching his fractured knuckles in the crossfire. Smashing straight into the underside of Steve's jaw, his hand wilted in the glove on impact.

The burning ache sent yelps of pain hot out of Steve's throat. His wraps screamed around the searing flesh and throbbed with each twitch of his swollen knuckles.

Tommy dropped his guard and his face crumbled in guilty cracks. "Shit! Steve," Tommy rushed to his friend's side. "God, did it break again? Can you feel your fingers—"

The sound of leather clipping a cheekbone bounced through the gym; the small echo trailed like aftershocks of a divine strike.

Jones' head snapped to the right. A red, shining bruise bloomed fresh and angry over his face.

Crisp, near manic laughter followed.

"Really, Steve?!" An incredulous look on Tommy's face still held the ghost of concern, and Steve laughed all the louder and nearly fell to the ground.

"That was fuckin' classic, Jones!"

"It really ain't funny man, I thought you were hurt," Tommy's cheeks took on a rouge coloring more related to injured pride than body.

"Oh, I _am _," he threw off his boxing gloves. The swelling already split the wraps apart. "But it was worth it." Fresh cackles rolled through Steve's gut at the absolutely horrified look in Tommy's eyes. "Oh, fuck," Steve wheezed out with dying laughter. "Fix your face, mate, _it'll heal! _Danny, get all that?"

A bobbing yarmulke seizured on Steve's peripheral in a bluish haze. His little brother, Danny, had begun shadowing his elder brother from the sidelines in the splash zone. His Talmud homework and transcriptions had been forgotten on the bench. A crumpled bit of paper and a pencil had fallen to the ground, precarious in position to a study version of the Talmud. That ancient monstrosity, the family copy from what Steve could tell, sat spine up on the floor. It was no better than a misplaced sweat rag at this rude conjunction of its long life.

_Rebecca will love that. _

"What's that move called?! Is it even _legal?" _Danny tried mimicking Steve's punches in amateur's zeal, but he was worlds of wrong. His form was too stiff, he reached too far, he left his vitals exposed, and every other sin imaginable in boxing. But eagerness was a shot of codeine to pain and inexperience.

Steve knew for certain Danny wouldn't make it a single round in the ring, let alone a real fight. But he still smirked at his brother's wide-eyed prattling and ruffled his locks fondly over the ropes. Hard to believe he used to hate the kid.

"_Cheating_," Tommy cut into Steve's utter delight. "And don't take notes on' at, you'd get tossed outta the ring like this bastard should." He climbed over the ropes, footsteps heavy enough on the mat and concrete to mix with missed hits, jeers, and callouts in a drum-like rhythm.

"Calm down Jones," Steve pulled himself through the ropes to trail behind the shorter teen. "And I didn't _cheat, _I faked you out—big difference."

"Yeah, legality is a big bloody difference."

Steve rolled his eyes at Jones' uppity nature. He then flashed a devilish smile Danny's way; the mirrored glint of mischief in his little brother's eye was worth the scolding. "If that Donahue fucker comes at you, catch him off guard then go for that overhand punch I decked Tommy with. No rules outside the ring."

"Steve, come on," Tommy dispatched his boxing gloves and tucked them lovingly under his arm to massage his swollen jaw. "You'll get'em sent to the borstal with that advice. Listen," he took a seat on the bench and ushered Danny over.

The tween barely squeezed next to Jones; his broad frame engulfed the bench in its entirety and only an edge was left for Danny. "If you learn to fight good an'proper, you don't need dirty tricks or nothing."

Steve was ready to cackle again, but it died when he saw Danny's full attention turn to Jones. The zeal that Steve thought was only for him, the way admiration just wafted off the kid like radiation, was fully set on Tommy Jones.

_Traitor. _

"Could you show me how to do that cross-up? It looked like Steve really had you, but then you flew that beauty outta nowhere! You a big Calzaghe fan? You'd have to be, how else can you go up against a Southpaw at that wingspan and height disadvantage! What about Finnegan? Dad has old tapes of his match with Foster from the 70's, before the detached retina, and those solid hooks you landed that popped'em right in the nose—"

Bright eyes went wide, skipping a scratch on his record-speed babbling, and Danny slipped from the bench onto his feet in a pivot towards his big brother. "Did you break your hand on _Tommy's _face?!"

The excitement lacing through Danny's voice felt too familiar, but a pride of sorts wormed up Steve's fallen state.

"No, that was—" Tommy began, then his lip quirked as his brainpower stuttered. "Actually, how'd you do that again? Speed bag?"

"You said you sparred and broke it on some bloke's face," Danny's words dulled in a pout.

"Spar?" Worry lines stretched across Jones' forehead in a sheet of scrunched skin. "You broke your hand _sparring?" _

Steve felt his knuckles twitch. His eyes shifted with the silence growing and pressing down on his shoulders.

He couldn't remember what he told Tommy, honestly. It was a throw-away lie; something he was only supposed to remember for a day, maybe, then dump because Tommy Jones is Tommy fucking Jones.

Alan's mind is a metal death-trap for trivia, his mum constantly pesters him, his therapist can sniff out his bullshit, and Darren… well, Darren's partly to blame for this. In other words, Tommy Jones was _not _someone he should keep his lies in check for.

"Christ, Steve," Tommy rolled a squared-off thumb and stubby pointer finger along his nose bridge.

The blond shifted at his tone, readying a royal bluff when he damn well knew he only had a pair.

"This is why you gotta keep form an 'all! Proper technique an'form keeps you safe and your hands—"

An internal sigh blocked out the rest of Jones' tirade. He didn't have to explain shit, meaning that Jones' could just—

"Shove it, mate. Danny," he got on his brother's eye level and tapped a flat palm on his acne-crested cheek. "Fight 'good an'proper' like Jones here and you'll get beat up by a cripple. Any chance you get, play dirty. Spit, kick, even go for the balls—and even when they're down, don't stop."

"Solid advice, Steve," called a painfully familiar voice over the gym. The frequency of that single voice cut through all other noise. It sliced through cloth-deafened strikes and gut-turned groans just to seep into Steve's blood. He felt it froth in his veins.

_Fuckin' _**_Eric._**

That ginger, fuck-faced knob strolled over in casual steps. His hands were wrapped but he sported no gloves. A loose-fit muscle shirt showed off his freckled guns and the dropped arm-holes revealed moderately cut obliques.

_Who the fuck was he showing off for, gym rats? _

"Oi, Steve," Eric said after some small talk with the boys. "Thought I'd find you here; Darren said this is part of your anger management or something. Never pegged you for a violent bloke, seem pretty chill and all to me."

Tommy went tight-lipped and Danny snickered under his breath.

A quick pop to the shoulder from Steve killed that little twerp's sense of humor _real quick. _

"Got someone I'd like you to meet," Eric made a side step and produced a centerfold right out of his shadow.

A solid 9 with dark russet hued skin, thick coal-black hair in a french braid, and a gorgeous face stared him down with smoky amber eyes. Her lips were heart-shaped and full; a lot like her tits. Those perfect D-cups busted out of her sports bra before tapering down into a trimmed waist. Not much of an ass, though. She had gorgeously thick thighs and long legs, but her tail bone just dipped off into no-shag land.

Fuck it; Steve was sprung already.

"This is my friend, Nadeen," Eric quipped in, ruining Steve's mental undressing.

She flashed them all a polite smile but lingered on Steve. "You the Leopard?" she asked.

Steve heard Jones stifle a laugh, and he was pretty certain Danny short-circuited with his tit-glazed sight. The nickname was equal parts an ego-trip and a well of deep, overwhelming shame from his childhood.

"Only on the field and in rude company," Steve stretched his arms over his head, flexing his glamour muscles for all their damn worth. "So, you can just call me 'Steve'."

Nadeen's eyes rolled up his chest, stalling just a bit on his well-defined pecs and shoulders. "No," she gave a sly grin, "I think 'Leopard' works just fine for me." Nadeen slid right past the boys, leaving Steve gaping and delightfully revved up.

Eric followed Nadeen with both their bags looped over his shoulders and mouthed 'Brillant, am I right!' to the boys.

Aside from that ginger prat, he got such a delicious view of Nadeen's thighs and legs in reverse. Steve trailed the curve of her thigh up to her hip, and settled on the tight, black-leather gloves she donned. He saw her square up a speed bag like a trained MMA fighter, arse tight and shoulders flexed, and he nearly creamed. If she could land a right hook bare-knuckled, Steve would use his own sweat rag as a chuppah.

Tommy rose up from the bench, sending it up and level again like a see-saw, and tapped Steve's shoulder with his sweaty, wrapped sausage-fingers. "Oi, isn't that Darren's guy?" he asked.

"Wish he wasn't, but yeah," Steve tightened the bandages on his swollen hand, the ache only worsening with time.

"Kinda jacked for a poof, gotta say," Jones' mused, though his eyes trailed Nadeen's speed punching.

"Why you lookin' at the bangers, Jones? I'm gettin' an order of that Ruby Murray."

Jones gagged at Steve's lack of class, but the blond was already zeroed in. Oh, fuckin' beauty she was.

Eric trotted back over to them after a few of Nadeen's sets, a wide grin plastered across his freckled face."Old uni friend I use to sneak drinks for. She's been havin' rows with her bloke," Eric said, "figured you could show her a good time at the freak show. She quite fancies you, so good shot there."

"Freak show…?" Danny came too and his eyes went alight as Steve cursed under his breath.

"You're not going," he killed that thought before it could even crawl out of Danny's puberty-cracked vocal cords.

"I never said I wanted to _go, _" he settled back on the bench and reached for his Talmud. "I just didn't know there was a _Freak Show _around, s'all."

Steve heard the downward tilt to his voice, saw his head buried in the Talmud, and knew that he crushed his brother's ego just a bit.

"You gonna keep _cheating, _or are you gonna do some _real _moves?"

"Oi, it wasn't cheating! And you won't be saying that shit when you land that move on Donahue's fuckin' fat head," said Steve with a blazing look to Tommy. "See what you do, mate? He goes in with your 'good an'proper' shit an' he's gonna get fucked."

"Don't pin this on me," Tommy quipped back and sat right on the bench again, sending Danny up a good six inches, "it ain't my fault you can't win a clean fight."

Steve rolled his eyes but caught his baby brother's forlorn expression. He was still moping into his homework and rubbing at his bruised shoulder.

_Bloody moody kid. _

With a click of his tongue and a few throw away Yiddish curses, Steve folded. "Alright," he said, "come help the cripple do a 'clean' row, then."

"M'good here, man," Tommy pointed to his swollen cheek, now a purplish-red and quite angry.

"I can spar," Eric cut in, gym bag on the ground and gloves magically over his wraps. "What are ya? 6'0", 6'1"? Around 12 stone? Bet we're a better matchup than you and Tommy here."

Steve gave only a single nod to acknowledge the sentiment, and one more because, damn it, he wasn't _wrong_.

Tommy was considerably shorter than Steve and a whole weight class below him. But, again, Jones was a damn machine. He could outbox his division and keep Steve's middleweight arse on his toes.

"I'll even go South to even it up a bit," added Eric with an arm already under the ropes.

"_Even it up _," Steve masked a seething bite with a chuckle. "I'll fuck you up the same I did Jones here."

"Alright," with a knock of his gloves on the ropes, Eric back stepped into the center of the ring, "gonna prove that, mate?"

Steve watched the way he pranced inside the ring. He might as well be walking down King Street on a pub crawl, he was that relaxed. No amateur's shifty steps, no deep breaths, no itch to scratch with a few bruising cracks to the ribs. Eric was just _there, _like he'd spent his whole life undisturbed or unworried.

_And Steve would fucking change that. _

He hopped back in the ring, Jones' words of concerns and Danny's silent gaze of admiration shelling him.

Eric smiled; it seemed friendly, though Steve couldn't think of the last time an opponent truly smiled at him.

They knocked gloves together at the center line and went off.

Eric stayed with the Southpaw stance, and Steve cursed the guy for trying to make it 'fair.' The advantage to Southpaw, Steve learned right after he broke his hand, is that a good number of boxers at Left Hook _can't counter that shit. _

Unfortunately, Steve was one of them.

A deft right hook nearly caught him. He sidestepped out of the way, but Eric mirrored the retreat.

"Go for the kill shot and no follow-through?" Steve said, "You always go Orthodox? Looks like you've been practicing the Southpaw a bit, could've fucked me up right proper there."

"Only a bit, and only for the past few weeks. Plus," said Eric, "thought that'd be a nice chance to talk. Get to know each other over a little warm-up, yeah?"

Steve replied with a forward charge to close the gap and a low jab to knock the wind out of him.

"So," Eric said at Steve's side in an instant, like he knew Steve's foundation of footwork before he even laid it down, "Nadeen's really fit, don't ya think?"

Steve was left with his jab incomplete, and a leather glove smashed into his cheek. He staggered away from the impact, more dazed than pained. "Not much in the back," he said with a glance her way.

Nadeen was waylaying into a heavy-duty sandbag now, each hit a clap of thunder mixing with the other trainees' personal storm. He saw a wet shine crown her head and eek down her spine. Her tits bounced with each hit, despite how hard her sports bra worked to keep them down. _Still bloody banging, though. _

Eric planted a foot back, ready for another hit at Steve's side. "Hmm," he mused with his glove reared back, "sorry 'bout that. Not much for blokes like us—"

A fast, heavy punch smashed the words back into Eric's mouth. The blow glanced at his side, and Steve sneered in the twist that convulsed his form.

But the fucker _laughed. _Not a laugh to cover up the pain or power through tightening muscles, but a fucking _chuckle. _"Almost ended me, mate," he said, "woulda been beautiful if it got me dead-center like you did Jones there." A mocking tilt to the words danced in Steve's ears.

Steve could hear his own breathing now. It came in slow, deliberate breaths as he brought himself down.

But full impact caught the side of his ear with a heavy glove and a burning aside: "Heard you and Darren had a spat."

Steve's head snapped with the force and he could hear his hair and blood _whoosh _with it. "Oi, 'at right," Steve wound up his hook as the rush of his blood settled, "what's it to ya?"

Eric shrugged, jumping back to clear Steve's deadly uppercut. "Kinda fond of him, wanna make sure him and his best mate are on good terms," he said, "'specially with the circus coming up."

Steve went in again, stance wide and his punches quick and erratic. He landed some, and a few even knocked some shine off that fucker's smile.

Eric guarded, playing the defensive for some time. He took the hits as they came and dodged what he could, but Steve's speed and mounting anger seemed to chip away his energy.

"You're still going," Eric asked between breaths, "right?"

"What's with you an' that fuckin' circus?"

"It's gonna be a special night," a feigned grin, all teeth and skin, rolled up the corners of his mouth. "Want Darren _there _for it, get me?"

Eric's head snapped to the right at the force of Steve's fist. He fell heavily to his side with a muffled groan.

Steve loomed over him, hands at his side, chattering voices in the distance mixing with the burning heat taking over his senses.

There was a stutter in the thunderous sandbags and fits. He heard Tommy get up; he felt a wave of reprimands bubble behind that blockhead's teeth.

Then Eric got up. He planted his right foot on the mat, pushed off it with his elbow, then looked Steve straight in the eye with a gleam. An edge played on his iris, a shift Steve couldn't catch. "Solid hit, mate," he said.

Steve wondered if he knocked something loose in that brain of his. But he couldn't waste energy on thoughts with Eric winding up another hit.

Eric dived back in, doubling up on his jabs like his opponent did moments ago. Steve was to the ropes again just trying to guard. His footwork was matched by Eric at every turn, and every step he tried to make was interrupted by the ginger's own.

"Hope you come," Eric said in the midst of their boxer's tango. "Darren's really excited, but don't think he'll go if you don't. Still a bit jumpy about the whole thing, isn't he?"

Steve landed a hit to his side with a sloppy cross-up. His left hand carried his body forward and knocked Eric a good foot back and out of Steve's zone. "Bit pushy there, aren't ya?" Steve said. "That why you go for the cradle, yeah? Easy to push around and get them in your lap?"

Eric chuckled off the obvious venom in Steve's accusation."Not much for the guys who can't buy their own drinks. But Darren's an exception," he said and retreated further into the back of the ring, "saw him at the library, tutoring some real degenerates, and I knew I just had to get his number. So, I really didn't think about the age difference."

"Real keen on him now and in public, apparently," Steve said with another cross-up.

Eric deflected, stepping to Steve's side deftly before going in for a cruel jab.

Steve jumped out of the way, feeling the air roll over his abs in the aftershocks of what would have been a brutal hit. But his mouth kept going.

"Can snog him in broad daylight and in front of God and Jesus and the whole school, then get cold feet when you're all alone?" A clap and a groan sent shivers up Steve's spine. That was a clean, _devastating _hit to Eric's stomach.

"Like I said, he's an exception," Eric groaned, face towards the ground and an arm wrapped around his middle. His face and neck were left open.

Steve couldn't keep his excitement contained. He felt his mouth split open in silent cackles, envisioning his knuckles going clear through the side of Eric's face. It would send him reeling on the ground, hacking up blood, belly up in the emergency room drinking blended meat from a damn straw, put him in the ground with a hole in his skull—"

"But you know all about that, right?"

A crack enveloped the gym and canceled out everything else. The room went silent for only a second after that solid punch. Wheather everyone stopped and paused to witness the onslaught or Steve could no longer hear past his thrumming blood, he wasn't sure.

Eric laid on the ground, face up with a bloody nose. But Steve's breathing grew only more rapid and labored at the words hanging over his limp form.

"What the fuck are you talking about," Steve said with a step closer to the man.

"Come on, Steve," Eric coughed and rolled to his side. He extended a hand up to the blond.

When Steve only stared at him, Eric helped himself up with a wheeze.

"Darren's bloody fit," he continued, "he's got the face, the body. He's smart and just a little bit of a weirdo; whole package right there…"

"Seriously," Steve went toe to toe with him, face an inch away from that sickeningly casual visage, "what the fuck are you going on about?"

"You know what I mean," Eric chuckled and clapped Steve on the shoulder, "you gotta know what I mean, you had a go at him, yeah?"

Steve threw Eric's hand off his shoulder in spitting disgust. His mind started spinning in cloying waves and vertebrate splitting heat. "The fuck gave you that brilliant idea, freak?"

It was becoming exponentially harder to remember what Mrs. Fairfield said. If she were here, and considering her mangled hag fingers Steve was surprised she didn't live at Left Hook, she would have chewed his ear off with passive-aggressive reminders and mantras.

But one of her techniques held true: _Always remove yourself from triggering situations. _

"Fuck this," Steve turned away from Eric and ripped off his gloves, "I'm done with this shit."

"Ah, come on, Steve," Eric said two steps behind, "it's not a big deal. Darren's hot as hell, and whatever you two did was before me and him got together-"

"We didn't do shit, you fuckin' bastard," Steve said at the ropes without looking back at that infuriating face. "Don't know what you heard or what you thought me and Darren did, but we fuckin' didn't, got it?"

Tommy and Danny now stood at the sidelines, strange looks covering their faces. Danny seemed to shrink into himself at his brother's mounting anger.

Tommy shifted on his feet, like a soldier that's been through enough land mines to know when one's about to go off.

"I don't mean to get you riled up before you see'em tomorrow," Eric called, though his swollen face made it sound much more distant and far off, almost like he wasn't there. "You're supposed to have a nice talk; hash things out, right?"

Steve stilled. He seethed a mere step away from the threshold of the ring; one more footfall and he would have been with Tommy and Danny, out of the gym, and back home to help with dinner and spoon brisket into his mouth. The boxing gloves were already tucked under his arm; the wraps were half off; Steve made all the preparations to get the fuck out of there and be a responsible man in control of his damn self.

_But that fucking cradle-robber just couldn't shut up. _

Steve felt the grin to Eric's words before he even took a breath. He imagined how his mouth stretched over his face, wide and unnervingly happy at whatever fucked up thoughts ran through his head before uttering: "Hope it's a_ real _nice talk, Stephen."

Screaming was all he heard. Animalistic, guttural, and wholly inhuman cries filled Steve's ears for what felt like hours. Pain radiated through his very bones. He couldn't tell which hand was broken anymore; the right and left crumpled in chaotic rhythms like a frantic drum set.

But Steve drove through. The screams pushed him on, goading him deeper and deeper into his own fantasy. He broke himself into Eric—no gloves and no wraps, just a flesh covering over cracked bone. His knuckles became a dyed scarlet, and he even felt them slice on exposed teeth.

But the _smell _…

It was so strong. Steve could taste iron on the back of his tongue and salt thick in his throat from acrid sweat.

Stiff fingers ripped at his shoulders. Another pair, noticeably softer and trembling, dug into his stomach with slim nails from behind.

"The fuck do you know, huh?" Steve heard himself grit back a building shout, "What the fuck did he tell you, _what the fuck did he tell you?!" _He kept reaching for Eric's throat, only for the hands of usurpers to wrench them away.

Tommy was at his back, biceps hooked under Steve's armpits attempting to hoist the taller up and out of a public battery charge. "You're gonna kill him, man! You're gonna fuckin' kill'em!"

"Good, let him bleed out on the Goddamn floor!" Steve knocked an elbow into Tommy's side, sending the teen back on his arse. He raised his fist again, unrestrained, and went for the misshapen, swollen mass that was now Eric's face.

"Oh my God," cried a voice at his back, "stop, just stop! What's wrong with you?!" It was shrill, panicked, terrified. It reached for Steve's balled fist, and the blond turned, ready to beat down anything else that kept his hands unbloodied.

Then he saw red-rimmed, amber eyes. Blown apart by fear, the wide iris reflected himself in negative: Steve's fist stayed in the air like a paused nuke, spotted flecks over his chest and face, and a look that sent cold blood to his heart.

Just under Nadeen's left eye, nearly smudged out of sight with eyeliner ruined by rolling sweat, Steve stared at three barely-there cuts. They were like shadows, evidence of something left behind that Steve couldn't track down. They even stared back at him; daring, almost mocking him to touch what was once there.

In that second, when a surprising calm rolled over Steve's body, Nadeen crawled to Eric's crumpled form on the floor of the ring.

Tommy took Steve by the arm and pulled him past the ropes, mumbling to Danny to grab their bags.

The boys dashed out of Left Hook into the frigid, blitzing wind of London autumn.

Tommy barked into Steve's ear the entire way to Angel Station, but Danny said nothing.

His yarmulke, gripped in his hands, flapped in the wind in a staccato beat against his yeshiva uniform.

Steve felt his younger brother's eyes on his knuckles. But the admiration was gone. What he felt curl around his form was something Steve knew his whole life. It wrung through Tommy's voice, gleamed off Nadeen's wide eyes, flashed across Darren's young face, froze the passing strangers on St. Albany street, and marred Steve's entire life.

_Fear. _

Even now, he felt Nadeen's nails at his abs and lower back. Trickles of dried blood stuck to his open jacket. The cold wasn't so bad. Icy wind and tiny drops of freezing mist rolled steam off his hands in a calming haze. It felt nice pretending the anger could dissipate with his dropping body temperature.

And as they left the platform on the 7:00 pm train to Bristol, Tommy looking through the glass from the other side and Danny gripping his bag tight to his chest, Steve remembered.

Of all the faces he'd seen today, of all the looks of utter fear and terror his presence dragged out of everyone in his life, both familiar and not, Steve recalled Eric's smile.

It never faltered, not once. Not when he hocked insults and loaded punches his way. Not even when he tried killing him on the floor. He smiled all the way through. Body bloodied, face destroyed beyond recognition, but yet Steve could still _see it. _

And that haunted him. Images rolled over the glass in the passing scenery on their unusually quiet ride to Bristol. Pubs crowded with bodies, run-down flats, thin cuts on young faces, bruised knuckles, cement-paced traffic, lights so bright they buzzed in his ears, wide irises wrung with fear, and a smile that cut through the heart of London.

Steve stood outside the Shan residence with hideous Tupperware in hand. It was a cool Friday afternoon, and the last of the daylight hours were quickly dissipating.

Tacky, imitation-blue plastic housed piping hot babka straight from his mum's oven. Steve would have been proud to say that he helped this time, but he was still a disaster in the kitchen. All he really did was the dishes and transport the bread from his mum's to his mate's mum.

The babka kept his hands warm in the autumn chill and his senses alert. A rich and full chocolate aroma mixed with Mrs. Shan's dying lilacs. They'd come back mid-spring, but now only wilted, dull flowers clung to the branches. If their scent was in full, that cloying, sugar-drenched smell on the cusp of his consciousness, Steve didn't know what he'd do.

His hands ached at the memories edging on his mind. If Tommy hadn't talked his father down, Steve would be locked up in a borstal right now.

Whether Eric had told Darren of what transpired yesterday night, he had no idea. And the thought of standing in front of the Shan home, peace offering in hand, only to be denied and turned away sent Steve's heart into his throat.

So, he focused on his mother's baking, heavenly scent and all, and the pattering click of modest heels past the Shans' front door.

"Hello, love," Angela Shan answered with a full embrace around his neck and shoulders.

Steve had to bend his knees inward just so she could accomplish the feat. But he hugged her all the same and practically melted into her touch.

She pulled back, laying a finger on the purple welt along his cheekbone. "Lord," she said, "how hard do you tackle those lads in rugby?"

Steve shrugged away a wince at the contact. "Therapy, actually," Steve said, "an' it looks worse than it is."

"It still looks bloody terrible," Mrs. Shan took him by the arm and lead him to the door, "let's get you outta the cold, at least. And you're not even wearing a jumper or anything, Steve—"

His soft chuckles mixed with Mrs. Shan's fretting. She wasn't as bad as his own mum, but a motherly fear cloaked the teen whenever he visited the Shans'. It felt nice knowing she cared, even if was only for the moment.

Darren and Annie took after their mother, mainly, in both looks and demeanor. All three had soft, rounded features and enthusiastic smiles. And though Darren was cutting up to be a handsome young man, you could always see a bit of Angela in his cheeks and nose.

But that's not to say they got nothing from their father. Both children had Dermot's shockingly green eyes complete with their mum's kindness, and Annie had his strawberry-blond locks and volume.

And, as always, Mrs. Shan looked wonderful. Steve would dare say Mrs. Shan was a proper milf, but that treaded far too close on Oedipal lines for his comfort.

She wore a long-sleeved merlot colored dress fitted around the elbows. It gathered at her shoulders before giving way at the breast and flowing down, a modest silhouette fit for Friday mass. But it nipped in just enough at the waist to give the alter boys a few dozen Hail Marys later.

"Darren mentioned you'd be over, but I thought it be after mass?"

"He said I should just come beforehand," he said, stepping right past the Irish beauty into her modest home. Mr. Shan's IT job kept the family comfortable and Mrs. Shan a crafty homemaker. "Apparently, Father Stalworth likes to hear himself talk, " Steve said with the memory of that one instance he went to mass with the Shans on his mind; dry Jesus-crackers, pensioners, and Father Stalworth's monotone Latin for _five hours. Oy fuckin' vey. _

"Hmmm, that he does," she said, "Dermot thought we could have a nice dinner afterward, but I'm not too keen on driving into town at ten just for a steak. Think he does it on purpose?"

"Can't see why," said Steve, "I'd rather take you to dinner then go to Temple any day of the week."

"Ah, you make me feel so young, love," she patted his cheek tenderly before going after her real prize—the babka. "Darren," She called, slightly muffled by a mouthful of baked goods with a few quick steps to the kitchen, "Steve's here!"

Steve knew Darren was coming down not by his gait or rapid steps, but by Annie's incessant nagging. They bickered all the way down in hushed tones and heavy footsteps.

"You didn't say Steve was coming!" Annie whined, "I look like a freakin' nun!"

"_ God, _Annie, he doesn't care, and he's not gonna date you anyway."

"I never said I wanted to _date _him…" The phrase might've seemed cruel, but just _how _she said it revealed that she had very _different _thoughts in mind.

Steve heard Darren retch at the statement, though Steve was in an aroused state of disgust—like when you stumble upon your dad's kinky porno.

The brother and sister landed at the foot of the stairs in radically different attire. Darren leaned on the banister in joggers and a faded _Dundalk _jumper. Annie fussed with the waistline of her dress, a very similar fit to her mum's, but the fabric appeared fraught from constant re-adjustment to lay just right.

What a shame that was. Steve hated to think it, but Annie Shan was _damn fine _for his best mate's sister. She filled out considerably since entering secondary school, and Steve couldn't stop himself from noticing. Annie didn't wear little training bras that pinched at her sides anymore, but full-cupped ones with lace trim that poked through her t-shirts. Her rail-thin, knobby legs once marred by tromps through the woods on spider hunts thickened up into a pair of shapely legs sporting a round, taut arse. All the beauty puberty brought her, milky cleavage and full hips, undone by a single unflattering frock.

Even Darren covered up the bang-up job mother nature had on him. He tried to hide his toned shoulders and thick legs with a baggy sports jumper and shapeless joggers. But, unlike his sister, Darren couldn't hide. Arms crossed and hips cocked like he was pouting with his whole body, the way he leaned on the banister put those hormones' good work on display. That devilishly thick arse suffocated the wooden railing; his lean-cut biceps pressed under the jumper; sun-drenched stomach winked at the hem's edge.

Steve's throat dried up at the sight. His heart stuttered like the hand of God wrung the organ of sinner's blood. He thought he heard that mighty foot step down in thunderous peril.

His wandering gaze snapped away—as far away from the Shan siblings as anatomy allowed—when that heavy gait broke through his thoughts. Mounting footfalls clad in church oxfords sent prying eyes to the imposing crucifix on the mantel.

It indeed was not God but Dermot Shan, the closest thing Steve knew to a living, breathing Old Testament iteration. That old-school Catholic Irishman could make even the ultra-orthodox Jews cross themselves in Christly terror.

Mr. Shan had gone silver over the years. His once reddish-blond hair of his temples lost their luster and went ashen with muted tones. His face even had been muted by a loss of vitality the world seems to beat down into a hard-working man. Lines creased his forehead and the sides of his mouth, and the infant jowls began to hang from his neck.

But age didn't soften Dermot Shan. Rather, he looked weathered and imposing; the face of a rough mountainside unmoved by crashing ships.

He entered the living room to a wholly feminine welcome. His wife brushed a piece of lint away from his lapel, and his daughter stepped forward with her fingers steadied on her hips and a question on her lips. But his firstborn and only son did nothing. Well, nothing apparent.

Steve was certain no one but himself noticed the rigidity to Darren's stance, the shift of his eyes, or how his jaw pulsed witch each gnaw at his inner cheek.

"Steve," Dermot said, "how are you, son? Break any better?" He gave Steve a firm handshake at the wrist, servicing the damage on the third shake before pausing on his bruised face. "The injuries just keep multiplying on you."

"All nearly healed," replied Steve with a glance to Darren, "break just needs another week or two, a few days for my face, an' I'll be good."

Dermot smiled at his watch, peeking at its face just below his suit cuff. He nodded at Steve's words with each passing second. "Good, good to hear," he turned to his wife and daughter and gave the ritual platitudes.

_Angela, you look wonderful, _and _Annie, that's too much mascara for God's house _, and the like.

The comments were taken with a modest blush and poignantly ignored in that order.

Annie was already at the door, clacking at her phone keys —no doubt texting sad poetry rants to her friends in broken shorthand.

"Sure you don't wanna come with, love?" Mrs. Shan asked her son still rooted to the stairs.

"Yeah, I'm fine mam," Darren said with a little hand wave, as if to Houdini them out of sight. "Once a week is plenty for me."

"Apparently not," said Mr. Shan under his breath.

Mrs. Shan gave him a truly wicked side-eye. "Bite your tongue, Dermot," she failed to hide the anger and words behind her hand.

But the father of two didn't back down. "It would do you some good to spend time with your family, catch up with some of the youths, maybe even chat up some of the young ladies."

His voice tipped up at the end, and Steve felt ice slide down his back at the glare radiating off Darren.

"The Evergreens are supposed to attend service tonight, and their little Julia is quite the catch."

"Dermot, this really isn't the time," Angela slung her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand. "Darren doesn't have to go if he doesn't want too, and we're going to be late and hit the rush if we keep pestering him."

"I wouldn't call parenting 'pestering,' Angela," Mr. Shan quipped, " and I know Father Stalworth would love to speak with you about some of these _feelings _you've been having."

"Right, cause more church and closed-minded sermons is the answer to _everything, _" Darren said from the bannister.

"More family time and strong community values is always a good thing, young man," his voice went hard, though he didn't yell. Mr. Shan wasn't the yelling type; he was much worse. "Especially in this Godless town with all the crime lately." Mr. Shan, eyes alit and on pause from his crusade, turned to Steve. "Sorry to hear about the boy from Bristol, by the by. Did your da know him?"

"No, but he got a vigil and everything. Even gave the campus a day off in light of everything for mourning."

"Saw the vigil on the telly; beautiful, really. Excellent reading from Romans and Psalms. Hate that it takes such a tragedy to turn us to the Lord, but we do often need Him most in trying times," Mr. Shan's eyes pointed to Darren more than Steve. "Silver lining, one could say."

Steve didn't have to look at Darren to know he was staring right back with fire.

In a flurry, Angela Shan ushered her daughter out of the door. The heavy frame, somehow tiny and delicate in Mrs. Shan's iron grip, laid ajar expectantly for her husband.

"_Dermot, _" she said from the threshold, "we're going to be late."

Mr. Shan conceded to his wife. He bid his son a wave, shouted an 'I love you' from the door, and car tires crackled over the pavement not a minute later.

Darren's shoulders fell when the thrumming of the car engine stuttered to a whisper. "God," he walked down the steps and passed Steve to make a mad bee-line for the kitchen, "he's such a bloody prat."

Steve, gaze still fixated on the door, asked: "He always like that?"

"You didn't even get the full of it," Darren's voice bounced around the kitchen along with the clanking of mayonnaise jars, milk cartons, and that familiar chiming of wine bottles. "Come here after Sunday Mass, that's when he throws Leviticus and Genesis at me."

"Damn," said Steve, "I take it they don't know about Eric then?"

"God no," Darren said with a hearty slam of the fridge door, "he'd kick me out if he found out I had an _actual _boyfriend, then crack out grandpa's rifle and shoot him down."

Steve savored the visual for a moment: Dermot Shan, that relic poised in his hands and the trigger set, filling Eric up with lead in a scarlet flurry. Beautiful model, it was; an authentic 1871 Mauser made in 1914 and anointed with British blood in the Easter Rising.

Seemed fitting, watching Dermot Shan take up arms and defend his son from a tommy bastard much like his father's father did in Dublin. It'd be a bloody affair, really. Brains splattered over the driveway, bits of skull embedded in the brick of the house, face muscles and pulpy flesh like fertilizer for Mrs. Shan's new batch of lilacs. Steve had to crush the thought of 'slipping' Darren's relationship status to the good and reasonable Dermot Shan.

Darren, while Steve contemplated, stepped out of the kitchen.

Steve, expecting a bottle or two of Guinness, was reminded of his mate's love affair with Famous Grouse scotch.

Two glasses and a nearly full bottle of liquid amber were perched in Darren's hands. One glass already shined wetly in the light of the living room.

"How fucked are you gettin', mate?"

"I'm just having one to relax, calm down."

"Then why do you have the whole bottle by the neck there?"

Darren glared at Steve, took a stiff swig, and then walked back in the kitchen. He came back a solemn minute later after trading the scotch for a jar of pickled onions. "Since when are you the voice of reason, Leopard?"

Darren settled onto his mattress with the jar already open. He plucked one onion, crushed it between his teeth, licked the vinegar from his fingers, and asked: "So, what's going on?"

Steve shuffled about the room, fiddling with the most recent of Darren's journals. It had only been a little over a week since Steve was last in Darren's room, but it felt longer. The journal, maybe only a fourth filled at that time, was now marred by torn out pages, finished sketches of spiders, and forgotten short stories.

Steve thumbed at the gray pages, making a mental note of a half-empty entry with scribbles and crossed out sentences in censoring ink. "Just wanted to clear up some things," Steve said, "make sure we're okay."

Darren popped another pearl onion, and the soft cracks grated at Steve's ears with each chew. "Really?" he asked. Darren leaned back on his hands and wrists, eyeing Steve expectantly.

A long sigh rolled out of Steve. He sat on the bed next to Darren. His fingers folded in on each other, covering up the new cuts and bruises from yesterday.

"I'm sorry," he said, "for what happened on the field an'all. I just went mad and lost it for a bit."

"Oh, yeah, when you were your old self and we were having a great time before going full Jeykll and Hyde? Last week we literally fell asleep in the same bed, and now you can't even be around me?"

"Look, I was high—"

"Yeah," Darren tossed his head to the side with a snipped laugh, "faded, sloshed, hammered... That's the only way we can be around each other anymore."

"Come on, Dare," Steve said and reached a hand out for Darren's shoulder, "that's not true."

An eye-roll and a jerked shoulder were all Steve got in response.

"What the fuck you actin' so pissy for," Steve said, "you _lied _to me, so don't act fuckin' above this like I'm the bad guy."

His face went rigid and his eyes crossed. "_Above this? _" Darren's voice went deep into his Irish roots, something that Steve only got to hear when the brunet was especially pissed. "What're you even going on about, mate?"

"Yeah, yeah," he rose up from the bed and began pacing, "avoid the fuckin' point like you've been fuckin' avoiding me."

"You're the one that left," his voice grew and nearly silenced the jar slamming down on his nightstand. "I came out to you, bared my damn soul, and _you _popped off and lost your shit, Steve."

Steve went silent. He tried to keep the memories of that night out of his mind then as Darren grew bolder.

"You avoided me for months, wouldn't talk to me or even look at me, but I'm the pissy one!?" Red flared over Darren's cheeks, matching the boiling anger Steve tried to control in his gut. "And just when I think we're all better, fucking Hot Shot Shan and The Leopard again, you flip out, don't speak to me for a week, then waltz into my house battered to hell? _And I'm being pissy?!" _

"And I'm sorry for that, Dare," Steve said, "I was an arsehole, wanker, stupid, idiot bastard, and I'm really fuckin' sorry for that." He stopped in front of Darren, staring down at his defiant frame atop the bed. "But you haven't apologized for the shit you pulled. Fuck, _you _can't even admit that you did anything wrong."

"The only 'wrong' thing I did was play along with this," Darren stood, face turned upward to stare him down. "Is that why you came here? Just to scream at me, throw a fit, then drink my beer and act like nothing happened a week from now? Why'd you come here, Steve? Just to act like a bloody knob?" Darren asked with his eyes stern and mouth set. "What's the _real_ reason you're here?"

Fresh aches rolled up Steve's wrists. He'd been clenching down on himself in an iron grip at his palms. He'd forgotten nearly everything he rehearsed early into the morning when he couldn't sleep.

Steve recalled headlights and hollers of drunken businessmen leech through his window; he recalled his space heater's rattling cries and sputtered warmth; he recalled their searing kiss in front of Mrs. Shan's lilacs. But he couldn't remember what the fuck he was supposed to say now.

So, Steve said the only thing he knew, "I remember what happened that night."

Darren stilled. His cheeks grew hotter, and Steve knew full well that Darren couldn't ignore this.

"At first," Steve began and leaned on Darren's desk chair, "I really just thought it was cause you got a boyfriend and all. My therapist said it was because I might be jealous of you two being so close, and because of how angry I got 'round him…"

The memories threatened to flood back into his vision, compounded by their realization into the real world by yesterday's match. Steve gritted them back with another searing clench at his hands fisted around one another.

"Started seeing things, too, even when I wasn't high or sloshed. Thought they were dreams, that I was getting so in my head that I started having wet-fucking dreams about my best mate. The same dream just kept coming back, again and again, even when I wasn't sleeping, and I really started worrying about it all. What it meant about me, about _us," _Steve's eyes shifted to Darren.

He sat stalk still on his bed, eyes down on the ground and as far away from Steve's sharp gaze as possible.

"Then I figured it out," Steve caught Darren's gaze when the teen looked up. He remained utterly silent in their staring contest, and Steve couldn't gauge what his friend of over a decade was thinking.

"You lied to me," Steve said, "when I asked what happened after I apologized, you forgot to mention what we did in your front yard."

Darren blanched. He turned away from Steve's gaze, arms crossed over his body with his frame collapsing down on himself. He opened his mouth, then closed it shut for thought.

"Yeah, the garden..." Darren said after a moment, "you fell on top of me in the garden, then I brought you inside."

"And that's it?"

Darren shifted his gaze, and Steve saw his bottom lip quiver. "Well, we talked a bit too, and uh…" he trailed off again, searching his walls for something to salvage this trainwreck.

"Just tell me you didn't lie," Steve said. It came out as a plea, and he knew it. "Please, just tell me that I'm crazy and that I'm just having fucked up dreams, and nothing fuckin' happened…"

Darren stalled. Steve saw the words form behind his lips, jaw and teeth sliding in thought, tongue probing at the proto-sentence, but it never came.

And that was all Steve needed. He tried holding himself up on his feet, but his legs became so shaky that he had to fold into the bed. Hunched over, Steve let his head hang into his hands. Somehow the confirmation was worse than his own certainty.

He tried to breathe, but all he could manage were shallow inhales. It felt as if a stiff and unforgiving grip took hold of his heart. It squeezed down, stifling his pulse. Steve felt his heart try to pump but the organ became frantic in the grip; his chest began to collapse and is head grew numb while his heart drowned in stagnant blood.

"Hey, hey," Darren slung an arm around Steve's neck and tried to comfort him. His hand smoothed over Steve's wild locks, catching in the tangles and gently easing them out in calming strokes. "It's okay," he said, "we're okay, Steve."

Steve didn't realize that he had begun shaking. Feeling Darren flush at his side, how strong and solid he was, only exacerbated his trembling frame. He had to steady his mouth before speaking, but even then the words shook in the air. "How'd it happen?"

Darren stalled, and Steve could see how he ran the words through his mind first before attempting to speak. "Well, you called," he began, "but you were so sloppy and drunk I couldn't understand you. Guess I just knew you'd be over, or at the very least you'd be out on the street and probably get yourself killed, so I went outside and there you were—stumbling, barely standing up, giant drunk baby that you are, and I went to hold you up. You caught me in a hug, we fell down, and you kept crying stuff in Yiddish and I just didn't know what to do…"

"Did I—fuck," Steve chocked on the mere thought, "did I fuckin' force you—"

Darren's eyes went wide, and a shocked glint to their emerald hue had Steve spinning in his own mind. He shook his head and tried cutting back Steve's mental spiral with rushed words, but he was already frantic.

"I'm just like him, Dare," Steve bit back a sob that burned all the way up his throat. The twisting memories felt too real, too vivid as if he was watching a rerun on the telly.

He saw his dad's hands wrung around his mum's neck, then his own young hands around Darren's with the same words slicing through his teeth: _You can't leave me! _

"He hurt my mum," Steve choked, "and I hurt you—"

Strong arms folded around Steve's shoulders. "You didn't hurt me," Darren said, "you haven't hurt me since we were kids, and I don't blame you for that or anything."

His face, tucked by Darren's own accord, found comfort in the brunet's tanned neck. The weight of Darren's body pressed him down into the mattress and anchored him to the real world. Pained and trembling fingers took the smaller man into his lap. Steve held Darren around the waist and flush to his chest in a perfect ache.

"It's my fault," Darren breathed into Steve's hair, "you looked so afraid… kinda, like you do now," he chuckled the last bit, his lips brushing on the crown of platinum strands.

Darren was so warm, so firm against Steve, and curled so perfectly around him. He held onto his best mate, ran a hand through his hair and breathed in that damn intoxicating mix of lilacs and sweat and London green.

"But the real messed up part," Darren sighed as he rubbed small circles into the base of Steve's neck. "I was so happy, Steve. Just seeing you, being near you, holding you, knowing you didn't _hate _me—I was so happy, and I didn't know what to do."

Steve felt the voice-crack temper that Dublin-smooth speech. Somehow it embolded him, hearing the teen break apart like Steve was.

"You were so drunk, and I just kissed you without even thinking—"

"I'm not drunk now," Steve said.

Before Darren could say another word or register Steve's sliding grip on his thighs, the blond surged up.

Scotch and vinegar lingered on Darren's lips, a cocktail that Steve could still taste in faint whispers. Their soft press, Darren's lips caught in Steve's, lasted for a few seconds before it had to end.

Darren pulled away, craning his neck away only for Steve to follow with his hands rooted into the other's back.

"Steve…?" Darren pushed against his friend's shoulders, but that did nothing to stop their rising need.

In a slow dip, Steve stole him again. He locked onto Darren's plush bottom lip, rolling the softness in and out of his mouth in growing hunger.

Darren moaned into the kiss, want and lust vibrating his body.

Steve needed more than a taste. He needed something _deeper _and real that he could cling onto as his sanity burned away. This wasn't some fogged up memory or a hazy dream, but a real moment. This was Darren's mouth pressed to his own; these were Darren's thighs straddled across his lap; this was _Darren, _his best friend since their tender years flushed and rosy under his touch.

Though he kissed Steve back with just as much hunger, he cut their coupling short once more. He stared at the wall, his eyes darkened over in glassy pools, unable to meet Steve's relentless gaze. "We-we can't do this, Steve," he started out in a murmur, "I'm with Eric an-"

"We're not doing anything," Steve said, huskier than he intended, "you're just helping me figure this out, yeah?" He dove back in with a harsher bent. He sucked Darren's bottom lip between his own, biting down on the flesh in a soft hold.

The moan that rolled out of Darren's toned chest reverberated down into Steve's bones. The blond slipped his tongue past those parted lips and mapped out the hot interior of Darren's mouth. Wet slips of tongue mixed with intermittent moans, the soft pecks and hungry, rustling grabs at flexed arms and muscles underneath t-shirts bloomed around the pair.

They slid against one another, curled inside the other's mouth, tasted each other for everything they had to offer. For how Darren protested earlier, he pawed at Steve's arms and shoulders with such fervor that it sent the blond spinning.

Before Steve realized it, he pinned Darren underneath his body. With his hands gripping at those built thighs and narrow hips, he savored the warm, pliant feel and how it gave beneath his fingers. He massaged the flesh and savored the rich, needy groans it pulled from Darren.

But his hands weren't the only explorers. After pulling away for breath, Steve trailed sloppy kisses down Darren's burning neck. He dragged his tongue along a vein, pausing to suck a faint bruise on the pulse.

Darren uttered a breathless cry. He canted his hips upwards, rocking Steve's pelvis. The blond barred down and rutted right back, dragging yet another stuttered gasp from the lean football star.

"W-wait, Steve, please," he tried rolling out from underneath him, but only succeeded in flipping onto his stomach. "We're not thinkin', I have a boyfriend and you don't really want this."

In reply, Steve rolled his growing want into Darren's open legs. A deep rumbled groan fell from his lips. "Fuck, _please, _Darren," Steve breathed into his ear, "just do this for me, please."

That soft plea, far too soft from the likes of Steve Leonard, melted the boy down to his wick.

They fell back into each other, lost in a mass of open arms and tangled legs and adventurous mouths. Somewhere, in their heated mixing, Steve heard the clinking of his belt buckle and shifting leather. His belt was tossed to the floor, dead and useless, as Darren freed himself of his pants, laying in nothing but his boxers and jumper under his friend's heavy body.

Steve's pants, though loosed around his hips, grew suffocating at his crotch. He palmed himself through the jeans, hissing into Darren's mouth as the heel of his hand dragged the zipper over his head.

Desperate to ease that burning ache in his stomach, Steve pressed himself down into Darren's open legs.

A high, boner-popping keen wrung up Steve's back in desperate scratches. Darren clung to him as Steve rutted their clothed hard-ons together. But it wasn't enough. Even the pressure, the friction, the burn crawling up his cock and pooling in his stomach just wasn't enough.

"Turn around for me," Steve breathed.

Darren, mouth red and swollen from their harsh snogging, stared up at his friend. He opened his mouth to say something, but Steve sensed protest.

He silenced Darren with a swipe of his tongue and a harsh bite at his bottom lip. "Lemme fuckin' touch you," Steve inhaled Darren's rich scent, making his cock jump and lips stutter, "God, want you to fuckin' touch _me." _He pulled his cock out and pumped himself beyond rock hard. Steve lowered himself again, catching the flesh of Darren's inner thigh on the head.

They both nearly cried from the contact.

Darren melted again. He fell onto his side, sinking into the mattress and slipping his briefs down to his ankles so Steve could spoon and rut his cock into the softness of his thighs and arse.

Steve slipped behind him and pressed soft gratitudes into the conjunction of his neck. He kneaded at the swell of Darren's body, digging his fingers in and savoring how he bent under his touch.

Steve let the head of his cock, dripping with want, graze at a taut inner thigh.

Darren struggled to fight back a moan, but that only encouraged Steve more.

The cut head of his dick rubbed Darren down. Pre-cum slicked him up and buried them both in a wet heat. With each desperate grind, Darren squirmed and whimpered at the small grazes teasing him.

"God," Darren groaned, and Steve saw him bite down on a knuckle and grip the sheets, "between my thighs, put it between my thighs."

Steve spread his hands over the tops of Darren's legs and pressed down. He snapped his hips forward, and bit back his own moan at the tightness flush around his cock.

Darren squeezed back. Steve had to clutch at his friend's hips to stop from coming undone on the spot. His balls rested just below Darren's arse, his cock nestled between the entirety of those thick thighs. The head poked out, flush with the underside of Darren's wet, throbbing shaft. Steve thrusted his hips forward and grit his teeth at the drag. He did it again, grabbing a handful of Darren's arse and lifting the muscle to watch himself disappear into that pliant body over and over again.

The pace was irregular and fumbling with an inexperienced touch. Steve's brutal thrusts at the beginning dragged him to the edge before he'd lose control and slip. He'd swing his hips out too far before going back in too fast, popping out from between Darren's thighs and leaving his cock untouched for far too long.

It was after the third time and a few dozen _fercockts _from Steve that Darren reached between their bodies. He gripped Steve around the base and guided him back inside, nestling his cock flush with Steve's.

"S-slowly," Darren sucked in a breath at the new contact, "just go slowly, yeah?"

Steve rolled his hips forward in reply. The motion was gentle, purposeful, and _so damn good. _They groaned together, Darren's noises still muffled by his knuckle and Steve's by the flesh of Darren's warm neck.

Steve was drowning in the sensation, scent, noises—_ Darren— _molding around their bodies. He wanted to feel every bit of Darren. He glided his hands up and down his back and abs, dipped prying fingers into the fold of his leg and hip, held onto the meat of Darren's thighs, the swell of his arse, even crossed his arms around Darren's front to grope at his filled in pecs as they fucked.

Each touch and grope lit Darren's vocals alight in needy pants. He even pushed back into the unsteady rhythm of their hips, lost with Steve in their coupling.

They became more desperate. Steve's thrust grew harsher and deeper, sliding through Darren's closed thighs with such force that the sounds of joining flesh filled the air. It mixed with their pants and hungry cries. Darren gripped the base of their cocks together, letting Steve thrust into his hand with each pump.

Heat washed over Steve's being; it pulled from his head and gathered in a swirling force at his core. Darren's blistering tight body seared Steve's bare flesh in the best kind of pain. He felt himself breaking down and he loved every fucking second of it. His thrusts became erratic—desperate, selfish, cruel, and utterly depraved. Steve's legs even became stiff from his animalistic fucking, but to hell with the pain. This felt too good, too wrong and bloody dirty to stop for anything. And the _noises _melting from Darren's lips with each thrust were other-worldly. Every time their cocks brushed together, squelching flesh and a pleasured cry rang back.

Darren's grip around their cocks locked up as he got closer to the peak. His thighs pressed down, his back arched and sent his fat arse into Steve's relentless hips. Wanton moans and heavy breaths of mounting heat flooded Darren's mouth. He was crying now, babbling such nonsense that all Steve could comprehend was _good, so good—fuck, _**_Steve_**_... _

He burst.

Steve came hot and thick between Darren's pressed thighs. Each shot of cum slicked up their cocks, and Darren spilled almost immediately afterwards in the sodden wet mess his hand became.

Rapid slaps filled the room in the aftershock. The sound of flesh on flesh worked Steve's spent cock in tandem with the body spasming over the head. Each thrust pulled another gasp from Darren's lips. He rode out their orgasms in decelerating thrusts before stilling.

Steve collapsed onto his back, freeing his cock from Darren. A wetness seeped down his shaft and settled under his balls and mixed with his sweat. It would soon turn into a sticky-dry and chafing kind of filth. But he couldn't be bothered.

Steve laid there with his mind blank and his body spent. Though Darren was curled away from him, he couldn't help but stare at the nape of his neck left uncovered by the jumper. The sheets and comforter shifted with Steve's small movements. He went in without a thought, ready to taste the sweat and salt at the base of Darren's neck in a chaste kiss.

Then Darren spoke, "you got it out of your system, yeah?"

He sounded so calm, so casual like he was asking about Steve's latest find at Watkins'.

Steve halted. The rustling, creaking, shifting squeaks and cracks of that old bed ceased with him. He stared into dark brown locks and Darren's spine.

"Yeah," Steve said, "I'm good." Of course he was good. Darren seemed fine, so Steve was fine.

"Good," Darren said with his back turned to Steve still.

This was a quickie. Steve just needed to get rid of some pent up sexual frustration. That's all this was. They let their emotions get away from them all those months ago, and this was just to correct that.

Steve figured it out, now. They were still friends, this just confirmed it. Steve didn't like guys, he just had a passing thing most teens get, the 'phase.' He had his fill; he was good. Really.

A moment of silence passed over the friends. Steve's fingers curled out of the space just at the edge of Darren's body and he settled onto his back again.

Darren tossed a wad of spunk-drenched tissues into the bin under his desk. He shuffled his underwear and joggers back over his now clean thighs.

And, just like that, the evidence of their sin was gone.

Darren slid out of bed. He grabbed the pickled onions, his fingers tapping at the lid before asking "you want anything from the fridge? Beer or something?"

Steve took too long to answer.

"Da's got some Guinness still hanging in the fridge, I'll grab some," and with that Darren stepped out of the room without glancing back.

Steve, alone and lost with himself at the rapid, one-sided exchange, took the opportunity to tuck himself back into his pants. The dried bits of cum still flaked in the thick hair around his navel and cock would wash out. Darren's scent, now entrenched inside Steve's pores, would get scrubbed away by the hours.

And, Steve thought, the burn that lingered on his mouth, the tips of his fingers, the tops of his bare hips, and the interior of his heart in every beat would fade into an awkward memory the pair would only talk about when thrashed and alone on New Years.

Steve thought that this would just stay a little secret between them, a kind of embarrassment you look back on and bound over. And he was very much alright with that.

He felt that he should smile; that he should _want _to smile. But he couldn't.


End file.
